Quantifiable Chocolate

Milk chocolate sentiments are scaring me
into myself to see the chords which hold
onto memories of worn-out insults.

Newly repeating old conversations,
and wondering how two roads converege
in the wood's opening.

Like railroad tracks, dry trails appear
to run parallel and meet in the middle
somewhere near the end of sight.

But we both know this story isn't like that.
The urban moutain man and the coastal plain flower child
sit in seperate cages, only caressing through the glass.

You say my hair has gotten better,
my stomach firmer; but your way of seeing has just aged
a decade or so of neglect can do that.

I'm am resisting temptation to count the notes;
to slide them on the machine and have it quantify
how much this intoxication is providing.