Still No.

how’s it going, my dear thing?
I see you’re still there,
in one piece.
you’re surviving,
doing fine,
not spontaneously combusting.

from afar,
you’re hard
to press,
and I’d be hard-pressed
to let you.

why would I?
I love you more than that.
more than a bushel and a peck,
more than a big tree and a kiss.

you love me, too.
and you love the consequence.

you said this life is long.
does it feel endless?
our world has spun,
half a revolution
around the relentless sun.

and you still have none.

I don’t hear you asking,
though —

the answer
is
so
no.




nullo modo, babe.