I cannot tell you what I’m thinking
Because it will hurt me more than it will hurt you
It won’t hurt me to hurt you – you understand?
I’m beyond that
I found out long ago that the heart is a predator
It has eyes that look straight ahead and measure the distance to its prey
It will not be distracted from its arcane purpose by the brain
Which it considers to be an expensive luxury
I cannot tell you how I feel
Because the detritus that has been washed down the limbic channel
Has formed an impassable coronary calculus
And nothing can get through
The impasse makes me articulate, perceptive
Because the exquisite pain it creates lends me the clarity
To see Jung beating down Loyola’s door
Which ordinarily would make me laugh – but not today
I cannot tell you how little or how much I love you
Not because my love is stinting or infinite – or somewhere in between
But because I was never given the tools to make such measurements
The mathematics of adoration I must leave to the Florentines
But yet, there is something that mollifies the synapses
Something that insinuates and suggests itself
A cognitive messenger from the expensive luxury perhaps?
You won’t like what I’m thinking. So I will not tell you.