Love Means Nothing or The Semifinals of Tarnished Feelings

Next to nothing, but love when you bring
out your A-game and send a backhanded waterlogged
remark to ricochet off my weathered sensitivity.

Feeling the sting, it could only mean
you’ve never formulated a feeling that concluded in
amorous reciprocation. As I stand on the clay, clasping the

black and blue, I think if only I could perfect
my follow-through, the sentiment would return to you.
The scoreboard admits to its earlier

mistake. We’re no longer situated at love,
we’re taking backswings at indifference and
perhaps hate. When you served up your competitive dish, I

wasn’t sure if you wanted to rectify our
situation with a hit or miss, or rub your meager first ace
in my mascara-smeared face. Is a solo win your

solution? Silently wishing the medal stand was
built for two gold victors, I equate love to nothing,
and slam down an “I really, really respected you.”

Back to differentiation with each forearm challenging
the last, I contemplate the notion of letting you win,
only to accommodate your fragile state of best.