i said you were my bible -
heavy with ignorant words.

my handwriting changed
after you left.

now, it runs rightwards
as the words strive to
escape my pen.

now, any letters that
stand upright
are left so very empty.

now, the ink i use is blue
because i needed a break
from the black-and-white
i used to live.

now, i showed someone else
the things i'd written
for you.

she told me my words
could be beautiful,
even if i only write
in the margins of
old books.

my letters dance, now.
just another thing
that changed after you left.

(they are still not enough
to tell the paper what i hurt.)

(they are still not enough
for my forgotten regrets.)

look.
here's the thing.
i wish my spanish were better.

it is always harder to lie
in a language not your own.

and i wish i didn't tell myself
quite so many lies.

i used to think that ceilings
were placed to protect us from the sky
but now i'm left wondering
whether they protect the sky from us

i can't say i loved you like some hero of old
the greatest beast i've had to fight is a
man who told me girls couldn't do
anything (and yeah, i proved him wrong, but
he left thinking me the exception,
not the rule)

don't treat me as othello, far from home and struck
down with words stronger than desdemon's love
the moor was everything i'm not

don't call me boudica
don't call me scathach or aoife -
the reason their once-bright flames are
so captivating is that their hearts were strong and
more alive than their eyes (which
danced with fire even as they died)
they were heroes and i am here

i couldn't love you like a warrior,
conquistador,
ruler -
yet.
but it's what's coming that matters,
not what came. (of course i can't love you with
fire not yet mine.

it will be.)

what a strange species we are.

to burn so brightly for a lifetime
that we might have stolen the sun.

to die heartbeats later, light wasted,
remembered only in your photographs.