Suppose

            'So many have, that never touch'd his hand,
            Sweetly supposed them mistress of his heart.”
                              -William Shakespeare


It isn’t whether. No. Only: how long until
how bad it gets. Our quick, our clutch. Or, sluggish rift.

How costly this, a wished subletting of the heart.
Not mine to squat in; he’s not mine (it’s fine). But still:

that sock-to-the-stomach, sudden hollow Ugh! You see
the ante? I’m already un and raveling;

this scanty hope swan-songing my integrity.
(But maybe, also, just a little, reveling?

Piñata pricked, unpilfered? Tamed tsunami swell?
An overflowing loving cup?) Tut, tut! Too cursed.

Too much. I won’t allow it. Silly, sad, or worse:
tonight I’ll disavow these high-jinks, hurts, these hells.

(I will? I guess.) I must. Such surefire track to lack,
a certain fade to black…. (Oh fuck it. Holler back.)