{ the sweetest bee makes the thickest honey. }

Like its protagonist, a soon-to-be ex-lover, this poem walks the gauzy line between pessimistic longing and tightly controlled anger with affectless precision. The wryly homicidal narrator dissects his surroundings with a razor-bladed need to get under the dumb surface of things, then bemusedly steps back when the red begins to show.
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by Matthew Corey

You make me see the vacuum I've become. If I'm not
With you I'm home, listening to the water upstairs

Or fights next door. The sidewalks are covered in
Black ice that I slip on as I come running to

Meet you and come home late at night
Thinking we're a little closer.

On further inspection not much has changed. You're in
Argentina, you've come back. You want to see me,

See what's changed in a couple of weeks. It takes
Longer, I say, before we leave, and where

We are going you'll leave me to your friends,
Or friends of friends. I count the heads in the crowd,

Watch who's coming through the door. If I'm bold
I'll cut in on a conversation, maybe one of yours.

Say something disturbing, incendiary like "you
Should've killed him...and her, I'll do it for you,"

And disappear into another room.
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