I ask you
why.
Wrapped within my question
is another.
Who am I to you
that is worthy
of your remaining?
I am the subject
of your poems.
A cursory glance
reveals pain
of sixteen persuasions.
I do not brighten your existence.
Far from it.
And yet
I am the subject
of your poems
as you
are the subject of mine
and perhaps
that can be enough.
It has to be.
We are just two people
who found each other
and so are luckier than most.

It's not your fault
that when I'm curled around myself
on the ground
and I hear footsteps
approaching, quietly
you're not who I expect,
who I need to see
when I look up.

It's not your fault
that your hands on my back
and in my hair
are the wrong size
that your heartbeat against my ear
in your embrace
is the wrong rhythm
that your voice on the phone
telling me to be okay
has the wrong timbre.

It's not your fault
that when I hide in your arms
I'm trying to find my way
into someone else's,
arms I will never find.

It's not your fault
that I go searching for a dead boy
and find you instead,
I am not disappointed
I was just
hoping.

When the tempest has passed
I will wait for you
In the calm after the storm,
After the wind has died down
Leaving behind a bitingly cold stillness
A memory of lightning in the air.

Then, you will come to me
Speaking of broken trees
And newly green hillsides
Like the wispy stubble of a young man,
Inviting me to breathe in the icy-clean air,
Begging me to follow the weak winter sun.

The calm is all I had prayed for
In the dark, wild hours
As I cowered in my shelter
While the thunder pounded me underfoot,
The lightning burned its way through me
And my back was broken by the gale.

You will find your solace in its ending
And I will not have the heart to tell you
That I am not an adolescent hillside
Emerging renewed, having soaked up all the rain,
I am the broken tree
that could not weather the wind.

No wonder lies beside my fallen trunk
Only splinters and twisted bark
Mold and moss begin to claim me
And I shall let them tie me down
There is nothing left for me
Now even my roots are gone.

And then one day
the sun came out,
just for one instant
insignificant
to any who did not
seek it desperately.

And in that moment
a warmth was felt,
not yet a heat
but a hint
a memory
of past summers.

And when it ended,
and the cold returned
to bite the hearts
that had let themselves thaw,
relinquishing the numbness,
winter gained another inch.