Love Means No Holes

She told me that morning
She loved the word desire—
The way it forms in the mouth,
The way it squeezes out,
Emptying the lungs.

And after she'd said it, it hung
Strangely in the air for a moment—
As if I could see, briefly, the print of the word itself, suspended,
The edges slowly misting away.

She told me that morning she loved the word desire, and
Like a fool, I immediately thought of love—as if
There were a logical connection between the two. Like
One would naturally follow the other,
Depending where you start.

Sitting here in my room, spinning this
Paper box—
The TV static, an imitation
Of the rustle outside,
The glasses washed and put away,
The worn rug, the habit
Of never living or leaving…

She told me that morning she loved the word desire—
And I thought it funny, and in a way, strangely beautiful,
The way we're taught it's wrong
To want—or worse, to assume we're
Worth wanting. Funny like a stupid
Joke, told in a moment
Of distraction, with a perfect delivery.

And I thought it funny picturing it,
My back twisted, and in places broken
From a life of 'character—'
Grown absolutely and utterly pathetic
From learning it's better not to learn some things.

She told me that morning she loved the
Word desire—but desire is only a word for her.

She's gone now, and I'm left. And maybe
It's another stupid joke,
But there's nothing left now, just this paper box
She gave me, that I spin by its corners between
My fingertips.

She said, "I love the word desire," and this is what I can't get over:
My immense capacity for naiveté.
I immediately thought of love—
No wants, no holes—
No want but the want of it.
And I'd thought I was better than thoughts like this.

Now she seems to be coming from someplace wholy other.
The old room that was ours is dark. Cloudy.
Poor memory, more flattering revisions, layered and layered,
Questioned, the questions revisited.
So in the end, I say yes,
Desire is a good word, as I
Hold the only physical thing
She ever gave me: this
Paper box she made from
A poem of mine,
Holding it by opposite
Corners, letting it spin
Between my fingertips, as
My world slowly goes grey.

— J.W. Boyte