Your unshaven face accumulates
As flotsam in the wince of my smile.
I’ve a predilection for problems
Their development, their pithy reconciliations,
Sex that ends with rictus and begins with fire.
I knew that you were a caitiff, a roving truck.
I knew that whatever we planted
Would not grow because saplings
However, intent do not thrive in wreckage
I knew that you would dump me
In favor of an uncomplicated brevity
But as I watch you scuttle away
I realize that I never had the courage
To want for anything more.