I see you often

an apparition

a manifestation.

What is, what was, what could have been,

in intersection.

For a moment, the illusion carries me

before letting me off at the station of self-delusion.

What is:

barricades at the intersection of our roadways

put there by the municipalities of the heart.

Blood red tape draped to mark the boundary lines.

Patrolled by sentinels

of false expectations and arbitrary rulings.

I stand,

bound and surrounded

Memories, like fingerprints on my mind

that now identify every thought,

have served to convict my heart

of the gravest crime of all:

loving too much

knowing too well.



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