Land's end

It feels like Christmas eve
on Easter Island,
The presents pile around the tree.
Packages, like fancy pastries
afrost with shiny wrappings, beckon.
But none of them addressed to me.

It would be easier by far
to get through these days unscathed
If I didn't have to see them here,
picturing the pleasures they contain,
while cursing the secret names
of those for whom they wait.

Unlike the loves before
in which I've been,
I see quite clearly
the coordinates where myself ends
and you begins.
The very latitude and longitudes
themselves rail against
the thought of intersection.
It matters not how I may try
to cross from here to there,
and forge a single Us from out of two,
The status quo is doggedly determined
to remain: there is a Me
and then, there is a You.

Without a map or invitation
I cannot hope to comprehend
the outs and ins.
But it's like Christmas eve
on Easter Island
and I must pay
for my own sins.