What If I Didn't Want to?

What if I didn't want to think of you
as an angel in despair?
Or a rock my mother once found
while on a picnic in the Sahara?
I pick my teeth and find bits of corn,
broken artifacts of flour and maze
lost in my very blood.

But I won't write about it.

I won't write because I won't research.
I want it to come oh so easily,
lapping it up beside a pool all day.

I saw into the fog one night
all the ghosts I'd ever heard of then I understood.
Finally.
Yet I scythed right through the wisps
in a desperate perspective tunneled to a blind horizon.

And the lemons never make my saliva ducts ache
the way you once described,
I just feel the tips of my fingers
grazing the surface of that pool.

I'd chase you,
but there's nothing there.