I look, appalled, at my hands
at my mouth
for the things they've done to you
denying my only promise to myself,
that you being hurt
would not be of my own doing.

Trying to tear away the skin
that holds memories
I wish hadn't happened
never works, I've learned.

But how does one,
ever forgive themselves
for something like
what i've done to you.

I could write about ignorance

and hate,

I could write about

poverty, war,

and family.

I could write about the faces

that they show in the news,

stories that

are too large

to pin down.

And I could write about the trees,

with their leaves hanging

by tiny stems

or the sunset

and whatever color

it decided to be today.

I could write about all these things

that are so important

to the world,

but darling,

all I really want to do

is write about you.

You asked me if

we would ever die

and I said that

no, i don’t think so

there’s too many wounds

still opening

and not enough scars

there’s all the time

and so much more to love.

You asked me why,

and I said

that because

we don’t believe

in god

there would be nobody

to take what is

ours.

With apathy,

I am happy.

…

Without apathy,

I am horribly frustrated,

restless,

occasionally disheartened

where I am not myself.

But so unarguably alive

thrillingly animated;

unmistakably blissful;

So utterly

in love.