by Christos Polydorou

When you broke
my heart,  I loved you
a little less, and a little

more, both, you bore
no resemblance to anyone, how
could I have known. You

asked me to marry you,
but you did not show
up, once, twice, thrice times.

I waited like those idiots
in the play by Godot,
Waiting For Samuel Beckett

in a house of God
which looked like Noah’s Ark
washed up in Cyprus. You,

my sliced pineapple, were a reflection, like the world is a reflection
of a reflection,

and love is an automatic
selection of potential
excruciating rejection. Drink

all the sea water
there is
you cannot exhaust the seas. When

we were Siamese,
I picked the fleas
from your coat

and ran my fingers
through your hair.
Now what

grips you.