i am glad your name is unlike all others.
for, now, that i am forgetting you,
i will not be reminded,
inadvertently cajoled into recollection
that might stir up some sordid
pangs of sickly, sticky affection
and spoil this earnest purge.
no, right now i surge with genuine elation
knowing how unlikely i will be
a hapless liability of lost love,
a victim of foolish sentiment,
cuckold wide open to exposure
to the salt of interminable sorrow.
Circe, Circe, Circe-
so happy to know that tomorrow
my heart will begin to grow
far far apart from you,
so that i may move on en lieu
of love and all that i am
hopelessly,
supposedly,
forgetting.
the art of love
l.m