Reading a book about extinction
in a window-lit living room
with a tapping rain soundtrack,
wondering when me and my ideas
will become extinct, hoping
it is not today.
From Peru to Paris,
I want to see the world
before that fateful day
of my demise,
and I want to kiss her again
before I go.
Does she love me, I ask
the ceiling, knowing
she is in love with a feeling
not a person,
and that is her fault,
not mine.
We are the megafauna that falls
in love and then dies,
and goes Unremembered.
The Glabella is
the smooth part of the forehead
above and between the eyebrows,
it evolved for us and it is
where I look confused about everything,
while holding my drink in my mouth,
looking at a corner of the room,
contemplating gloom and if this is it?