Confessional

I could take my words apart and put them back again
to tell a more palatable tale of when
I still gave credence to theories of love’s disorders
and the coincidence of meeting you at Border’s
book shop in the Charing Cross Road
where I was looking with all due vanity to see if they stocked my slim volume of poems and did not recognise that I had crossed a node
a confluence a point charged as if by ley lines
that you deemed evidence of fate’s designs
for us to edit each other’s prose
to smooth rough edges and untangle verse from strictures of any form other than what grows
our thoughts together
in pursuit of perfect hybrid pleasure
a cross pollination of romantic syntax
untroubled by the simple facts
by the normal modes of human expression
that would have revealed my shallow interest and the clinging depths of your depression
a mistake
I can yet unmake
by writing lines that sound confessional and true
while putting all the blame on you.