God loves me,
doesn't He want me to be happy?
why must He do this
again and again
why,
why must I quaver with self doubt
bring myself to tears with doubt and shame
no one should feel like this, no one should be afraid
that their love for another person will send them to burn
for eternity- my eternity cannot be spent with someone else
and I am in agony, I feel as though
part of me is ripping in half
why do they tell me that it's because of sin
when it's just because they've been telling me
how dangerous and how evil, how wrong it is
that my soul wants something contrary to God's will
they've been telling me this over and over my whole life
it has never felt anything but right between me and God
until someone else came in and told me it wasn't
and I'm not sinning, I'm not acting, its just
the shape of my heart is different than they say God wants
but God fashioned my heart, didn't He?
did He not hold it in his hands and mold it with His fingertips,
teaching it how and whom to love
so that one day I may use it?
did He not plan every part of my heart out and
write my past and future,
why is it that I must ignore what He has written
into me with every pump of His own handiwork?

My heart sat still in the attic, carefully boxed up and tucked away in the corner for an unknown time and place.

I would take it out from time to time, examining it to see if it still worked. It was covered in marks from those whom I had offered it to. Some were gentle, leaving only thumb prints, but others were careless and left bruises, scrapes or cuts. The scars went deep in places and still caused pain when touched, while others were barely noticeable. With each new scar my heart became more calloused and yet more fragile, and I shared it less and less, scared it might break irreparably. So I packaged it up, tightly bound, stored it away in the recesses where it would be safe from harm.

And there it sat, in the corner of my attic, collecting dust, beating slower, slower still, until the pulse was barely perceptible as it faded to grey.

But then came you. You were charming, kind, loving. You opened yourself up to me, shared your heart freely, showing me how easy it could be. Your heart was bruised and battered, too, but you did not let that stop you. The scars made yours stronger, more vibrant, more lively than before. You let me hold it, offered it to me, told me its stories, and we shared your vibrant heart. It was wonderful, but we both knew one heart--however strong--could not support two people.

With gentle words you asked to see my damaged heart, with gentle breaths you blew the dust away, with gentle hands you undid the bindings on the box. You gingerly cupped my battered heart, massaged it back to life, held it close and assured me it would be safe with you.

I was distrustful at first, scared you would damage it even more. But as the hours turned to days and the days turned to weeks, you faithfully cared for my heart with your kind words, caring actions, tender touches.

For so long I was afraid of letting this happen, of giving my heart to another, but you are showing me it's okay to try, okay to trust, okay to love. You are showing me a life I never knew I could have, and moment by moment, touch by touch, word by word, you are bringing my heart new life.

I still think of you, you know
     in the dead of night,
     in the quietest hours,
     in the lonesome dark

I still dream of you, you know
     in my midnight slumber,
     in my subconscious life,
     in my somnambulistic searching

I still long for you, you know
     when I feel that itch,
     when relationships fail,
     when I crave attention

I still think of you, you know -- Do you ever think of me?

It's a strange thing, to not "be"
To not exist to someone else
I exist to my family, to my friends, to my colleagues,
But not to you

I used to "be" for you, to exist in your world
I used to mean a great deal to you
But now you have erased me from your perception of reality
And I no longer hold a place in your world

But you're still in mine. You still exist to me, you still continue to "be"
You're faint, and grow fainter by the day, but you still exist
You are the flicker of memory when I see a mutual friend
You flit back into reality when I drive past your old house

Since you are so faint, and I don't exist to you,
It always catches me off guard when I have to pretend things are different
When someone talks about the old days and reminds me of us
And I feel I have to play along and carry on as if those days still existed

But they do not; they were snuffed out long ago
I built the coffin for our mutual world, and you hammered in the final nail
I was the author, you were the finisher
What destruction we have caused

And all around us, this is going on:
Mutual worlds bursting into existence or collapsing upon themselves
And we all carry on like it's not a strange thing, to not "be"
To not exist to someone else

I find it funny that I can't write a poem about you
I've been trying all day and it's just not working
Don't be offended, it's nothing you've done
You've done quite a lot that I'd like to write about, actually
But you see, every time I start writing about broken relationships or other painful things,
Invariably I end up writing about him.

You see, the pain from that relationship still hurts the most, cuts the deepest, lingers the longest
And the harm you did just doesn't meet the mark
So I suppose you should take it as a compliment that I can't seem to write about you
I can honestly say I've had worse
Because for some reason, all poems come back to him, all pains remind me of his pain, and all my reflective thoughts are consumed by him.