Leaving the CD Player on Repeat - A Poem

Isn't it weird she said how easy it is to get lost in eyes,
as though eyes were a strip mall and I was a little boy who'd lost
his mother's hand. She said, look at me and see potential
but all I see is a past of my own, like mirrors in those pools
of ocular fluid, that show me a past that shouted at me
over minuscule things. I said isn't it weird that we should be so sure
of what tomorrow might bring, but she shook her head and said
don't think about that, time will give us the answers,
and to that I had to laugh.
And as a boy strolling down the sidewalk screaming for his
mother, I am seldom concerned with my conceit into
falling for someone, as if falling were the ideal way
one hurt oneself when love was on the table.
Nor do I take chances that something good will
arise from the sinking feeling in my gut, because even
though she was bold and beautiful the Titanic sunk
and rotted beneath the Atlantic Ocean. She said, isn't it weird
how overwrought with worry you are, and I said its smart
to be afraid, because I've experienced the expedited lovelorn
worship before and it sought only the ideal of forever
and took no chance to investigate whether this feast
were sustainable.
Isn't it weird she said, and I said, yes it is weird, and she
was happy to make her mistakes again, but I'd almost
died by my own hand for grasping at these straws,
and I was not ready to feel the barrel of a gun against the side
of my head. So, I disappeared like a ghost, because
that is what ghosts do best. I am a dead man,
as dead men suffer most, consumed by worms because
they were buried in the earth, in the hole,
that they dug.