when you become a piece of furniture, 
the known, predictable is your full mark; 
your loved ones all can say what you'll say next, 
as personhood, itself, flees out the door 

to then be chased by you, along with dreams 
of other feelings -- other thirsts and dares -- 
to where you are not patronized or viewed 
as something boring and ridiculous 

but rather as a lover, or a friend, 
or as a mystery, something alive; 
not static, in a warehouse in the dark,  
someone no longer seen, but simply 

there

---

She didn’t know why he had left her, but I did. She criticized him constantly, carped at him, belittled him.

On the odd occasions he would fight back, she would say he was insecure. “Insecure” is a word used by people to dismiss other people’s feelings.

Having said that I understood why he left, it was harder watching the choices he made afterwards. He was with a series of women who used him for his money, and he said he was okay with that. “At least these relationships are honest. No one would ever want me for me, no one ever has, so… they get what they want, I get what I want, it’s all good.”

But it is not all good. Do you think the woman you’re with now would stay by you if you were sick?

Not likely.

Why do you think you are unlovable?

Ask my ex-wife. I gave her the best I had, and you see where that got me.

Yeah, she treated you like a piece of furniture. But that was her, not you.

Yeah, well, you’re married to one of the three good women in the world, so I wouldn’t expect you to understand.

Oh, I understand. I was married before, remember?

Look, I know you don’t believe what I’m about to say, but: almost nobody really loves anybody. Romantically, that is. People love their kids; people love their dogs. But partners? That’s all just biology, and once it wears off, there is nothing but residual dislike left over.

Yeah, you’re right, I don’t believe what you just said.

---