I think I know what the problem was, your heart is twenty meters wide.
There is the west wing, and there is the right
but you forgot about the center: the most important part
where your two halves touch, I was there but you still weren’t full enough.
She left a nickel-sized bruise
she spoke the language of little dents and drilling holes for
water to sit, you gather mosquitoes like moths to a light. I sound how
it must taste to swallow wind. Empty empty empty
while crisp as stale bread, I swam to the gods to make you mine but she left
airholes to keep breathing inside you.
Please let me plant lilies there, not roses with edged thorns. I wanted
your pain once, before I understood that a person can love
too hard or too much. You deserve to hold her memory
in some small way, even if it is just
a beautiful grave - as long as I am in your heart, I am touching hers too.
I am pretty unhappy with this piece, but it needed to be written. I am at a stage where I think I can forgive.