When I lost him,

I wanted to say, "New depth to black,"

but found myself entranced

in the new width to space

opened within me

this time

The festers bleed over

in little volcanos and

I've posted newspaper clippings

all over my wall now--

I don't even know why

I think these eruptions are

like earthquakes,

as the crust beneath

rises for cooling

and a breath from the

smoldering of my asunder

liquid fire, molten desire

So I put up torn pages

from Kant right in the middle

of the newspaper clippings

and Kundera's Life is Elsewhere

though I hate the philosophy

of the protagonist,

he reminds me constantly

that I am one big opinion

changing with eyes

that are on me and never

my own.

There is nothing to worry then.

It all ends again, changes,

and someone will love me.

Someone will love me just like

Kundera, though I hate him,

so many felt otherwise.