'You're falling in love with me aren't you.'
he affirms over the low drone of the V6 stereo.
He always could tell my thoughts.
Not that predictability is a concern of mine,
I am spontaneous enough
to keep such a tagged abomination at bay.
Nonetheless—it frightens me, when he can
pinpoint a feeling before I can.
It's not a conjecture, a hypothesis—
a theory or speculation, but a
predetermined certainty.
Like the way he said, 'You still adore me.'
& I replied—in mild disarray, 'That's not a question is it? '
We all need to be told the things we fear,
be it emotion, empathy, amity, or animus.
Though we may not want to hear it,
it saves time, if time is of the essence;
If not, it beckons a truth—
a re-examination of what one claims
as truth
on a continual path to self-discovery.
Turning my head to meet his profile,
I let the static dwell behind my ears
before replying—in avid clarity,
'That's not a question, is it? '
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem