Torn

Torn

Late winter day,

your whining doesn’t sound

like you, sounds like a voice

living inside other voices.

I try to mold you, but you choose

your own dream

and shatter.

I am torn between your body

and your eyes. A monologue:

Does one divided

by nothing equal infinity?

Your young face

my point of departure,

the line I follow

to the point of regret.