Sometimes Love Involves Logistics

Quinn McIlhone

One day I’m in ecstasy,

the next despair,

my system unable

to sustain the high,

my dilemma

simply too painful.

My energies must go

to maintaining a front,

a happy face,

or you’ll deduce

there’s something wrong.

I feel exhausted,

bad mood exacerbated

by the end of summer

and workouts in the sun.

Now my only release

is alcohol,

and you are appalled

I’m drinking every day.

Nor does the swill

afford me relief,

because I’m as likely

to break down

as find respite.

I have a sinking feeling

in the pit of my stomach.

It’s getting bright,

birds are singing

and I reek of perfume

while creeping to the front door.

If you are awake,

I am done for.

I must wash off her scent,

stash my clothes

and get into bed

without waking you.

Having read Proust,

I expect a louche glamour

on exiting my cab

at five in the morning,

but there’s no glam

for a melancholic

who has been burning

with a hard, gemlike flame

throughout the fall.

My mood is dark as midnight

as I walk to the flat,

fearing you’ll be awake

and smell her perfume.

I negotiate the stairs

and strip for a shower,

stashing my telltale clothes

deep in the hamper.

I can explain the hour

by saying I drank with colleagues,

but there’s no getting around

the traces of her scent.

You are trusting

and do not wake

when I slip into bed

and nod off to dream.

I wake up thrashing

beside you, a sheen

of sweat on my skin,

my head pounding

with the excesses

demanded by the affair.