I don’t know what’s going to happen.
It’s a sentence that slips past his lips,
as an explanation. A justification.
He says it’s logic–rationality, but–
I call bullshit.
Fear drives these decisions,
uncertainty guides our choices.
Two paths–like that Robert Frost poem–
that, despite appearances, are both choked with
weeds, branches snagging and scratching at
limbs and face, tangling in hair and clothes.
Treacherous, each in their own way.
So why not take the one that promises
touch and pressing lips? Closeness of skin
along with the intimacy that comes from
similar minds converging.
Both paths offer heartbreak–
one offers much more fun.