You could've copied the dictionary
and it wouldn't have mattered.
Just those beautiful scripted letters
on a page in my hands.

The ink bled through just enough
to saturate the corners of the cursive.
It's all curves and valleys.
A font I could only lust after.

It had soul.
Almost like the very words you wrote
were in direct allusion to the gods;
Like all the connected alphabet fell to the ground
and on it's knees, worshipped you.

I wanted to read everything you took note of
Even, on occasion, your grocery lists.
But then, You could have copied the dictionary
and it wouldn't have made any difference at all.

I was young,
you were patient.
Youth sparkled on my skin
and innocence that had long been forgotten
fell from the trees.

Lousy with marriage proposals
and Friday night lights,
I was free.
You were every bit as irresponsible as my feeble heart.
Feeble, but not fragile.
I was strong, even then.

My skin was fresh
and untainted by passion.
The moments became hot
and there was a perpetual thickness
in the air as it hung heavy around my bedroom.

My window stayed open all summer,
but the fresh air never cleared my head.
I knew what I wanted
and you let me have it.

You stood by and watched
as I threw myself into the restless arms
of my latest romantic endeavor.

Finally, the air ceased to be honeysuckle sweet
and the window was shut.
The fog left and I was alone again.
You picked me back up and dusted me off
and released me back on the world.

I didn't thank you
because I had come to expect your behavior.
You were sweet on me
and I was determined to use that
to my full advantage.
I still am,
and you still let me.