explication of my own

The heart wants what the heart wants,

they say.

Only sometimes,

I wish:

the heart did not want.

(impossible,

it tells me:

to lust

is my

nature.)

Or at least,

did not want

so much.

(the nature of lust

is desire;

desire

is gluttonous,

feeds on want,

grows.)

Or maybe,

that it knew

more what it wanted—

shake it,

magic 8 ball style.

Tell me:

“yes”

or

“outlook not so good.”

Only please not:

“cannot predict,”

“ask again later.”

Life is vague enough already:

a myriad of speeding colors

rushing past my cheeks.

It

asks me questions

I cannot answer,

takes me places

I used

to know

by heart. 

Fade out,
double-exposure:
a French film
of loss
(black & white)
would not have
as much
want
as this.