L'Histoire d'un Petit Garcon

December 13, 2007
By
There is a little boy who whispers
Of how much he loves me,
But he has closed his eyes to a truth
He does not wish to see:

We are so different, he and I,
In almost every way.
Yet we bide our time together,
Scrambling for words to say.

He feeds me lines, which I swallow,
Choking, gagging, all the while.
My face twists into a grimace,
Which he mistaked for a smile.

I lovers really are magnets,
The opposites attract.
But the heart is free of physics
And chained to an ugly fact:

We are narcissists, every one of us,
So we search in all directions
For those with eyes and hearts and minds,
Displaying our own reflections.

I wish that I could disbelieve it;
I wish it wasn't true.
But, little boy, if you are reading,
I ask only this of you:

Forget my freckled face, dear boy;
Forget you knew my name;
Forget that you ever loved me,
For I do not feel the same.

Please peel your heart off your sleeve;
You would if you were smart.
Then, little boy, erase the name
You tattooed on your heart.

Now, hush that big-boy talk you try;
I'm deaf to your naive words, garcon.
You say you feel that I'm drifting,
But I've raised my sail; I'm gone.





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