Revisionist Poetry – Don’t Fall in Love, v.5

Rain performs its nightly duty
sliding past the lamppost
to christen my white canvas shoes—
still white, technically.

Genesis plays in my earphones,
trying very hard to be important,
vibrating with ancient promises
that absolutely do not apply to me.

People pass me by, professionally,
on their efficient commutes
to places they will later complain about.

She says she still can’t love me—
which sounds reasonable, honestly.
Maybe it’s a lie.
Maybe it’s the truth.
Maybe life, once again, will continue
without asking my opinion.

Why am I always the last to know?