This wound, I think, that will not mend.
It sits and looks at me and weeps.
She told me she would never bend.

These thoughts that I could not keep penned
Are quiet now; and still she sleeps.
This wound, I think, will not mend.

A letter, a note, I thought to send
To her, to her who comes and reaps.
She told me she would never bend.

No one knows; I have no friend;
I cannot fathom just how deep
This wound that will, I think, not mend.

They told but they could not portend
How widely, vastly, far she creeps.
She told me she would never bend.

They never saw her in the end;
They never saw how vast her sweep
Or this wound that I knew would never mend.
She told me she would never bend.

I love all parts of you just as I love you as a whole.

Your eyes are not your eyes.
        They are nets for light,
                catch-all-that-catch-can,
                and catch they do.

Your nose is not a nose.
        It is line and curve
                in your silhouette;
        Immediately recognizable
                and just as soon loved.

Your skin is not skin.
        It is flat and rolling prairie.
        It is not porcelain, but pocked,
                scarred and lovely.
        Sand on the beach that begs to be touched.

Your hair is not hair.
        It is thick forest
                Dark and deep.
        When I run my fingers through,
                I cannot help the rush of comfort.

Your legs are not legs,
        They are crooked columns
                of tendon and muscle,
                    cartilage and bone.
        They carry you to me.

Your arms are not arms.
        They are air.
        Strong as wind when wrapped around,
                and soft as a breeze when alighting on skin.

Your torso is not a torso.
        It is a trunk.
        Solid and beautiful.
        You are my tree and I lean against you.

Your mouth is not a mouth.
        It is a cave,
        Dark but warm
                and full of secrets.

Your hands are not hands.
        They are mirror twins,
                Machines that create and destroy.

And the ring on your finger is not a ring.
        It is the invisible oath;
        the promise that hangs in the air
                   and binds you to me.

It is a dictionary in ice.
        Pages frozen in place,
        the words blurry and unreadable.
        All cold and slippery.
I cannot grasp the concrete.

It is a blurry photo.
Unfocused, unmotivated,
                                   unknown.
Discarded as soon as it is found.

It is the waking up
                        with a dull pounding.
A nap that did not refresh
An exhaustion that never ends

I cannot wake up
  cannot end this dull ache
  cannot focus
  cannot grasp
  cannot thaw
  cannot do not know

Please wake me up
        and clear my head.
Adjust the focus; twist it
and snap a clear picture.
Give me something concrete.
        Press it to me
        and close my fingers around it.
Then wrap around me
        and help me hold on
        so this does not slip away, too.

From thence we came and held our proud heads high;
Such fierce and frightful warriors were we.
Until the day of reckoning is nigh
We shall not sleep, though tired we may be.

We are the soldiers; thin and quick we slide
Between the trees. Their stark white trunks are cold,
But we feel welcomed and amidst them hide.
Our ragged, clouded breaths we barely hold.

Like wind, we each pass silently, unseen,
The canopy above distorts the light.
It shades us as against the trees we lean.
The wounded droop; no longer will they fight.

And then she calls, so freeing us from play
Until we go to fight another day.

I think that that old clock struck ten.
I wait and watch the gulls along the shore.
I said I would not wait for you again.

So here I am and you are not. Again.
I will wait just a few minutes more.
I think that that old clock struck ten.

I thought I understood the ways of men
How they seem so steady at the core.
I said I would not wait for you again.

The time will come and I will go and then,
Then, you shall be the one wanting more.
I think that that old clock struck ten.

The time will come when I will have to pen.
My thoughts and fears upon the page will pour.
I said I would not wait for you again.

But for now I wait, a silent, staring wren
Sitting, standing, waiting by the shore.
I think that that old clock struck ten.
I said I would not wait for you again.

Last night I
had a dream that
you died.
Everyone we knew
came, said their I’m-so-sorry’s,
and
left, filtering out the front door
slowly
like sand through a sideways sifter,
leaving behind pieces,
words and memories
and casseroles I
could not taste.

And the whole time
everyone was here,
you were here, too.
I could hear
you, smell
you, feel
you.
I could feel you
surrounding me like the ghost of the baby blanket
I once had and could never leave at home.
I loved you here and here you would stay, with me,
and now you would never leave.
I could keep you.
You were bound to me.

But the ties that bind are tight and you did not like me leaving.
You could not go with me and
you
accidentally
and without words
by holding, enveloping,
suffocating
you told me
that you did not want me to ever leave again.
So I stopped.
I stopped leaving.
And the calls stopped, too.
The invites. The lunches. The impromptu trips to town.
All unnecessary noise.
The people left. And then it was just you and me.

Until one day I saw what you had done.
Tripping
I glanced in the mirror and saw.
You had etched yourself into my face.
Dug with your nails
terrifying ravines
escaping the corners
of my eyes. Pulled down
my mouth and every
shallow natural valley turned to
deep empty bowl, hungry and wanting.
My eyes no longer held light.
I saw this, all evidence against you,
and I still loved you.
You had hurt me in ways you never had
while you were here – here – and I knew.
And I still loved you.

Slinking up the stairs
I called you to me. I felt you surround
faster than before and
closer, tighter, colder.
Suffocating, stifling and
so destructive in how you loved me.

Slowly but faster
I grew to know
I would not become you and
you would not become me.
We were stuck on other sides of the mirror.
I was so angry
at what you had allowed me
made me
begged me to become.
Realizing
I gasped and put
hand to heart
it hurt so.
I stood upright
how long have I been bent
took in one long deep breath of stuffy air
how long since I opened the windows
and called you to me
when have I last heard a voice not my own
called you to listen.

I felt the loss of everything else
friends
family
adventure
excitement.
Nothing was left of that here
and I was so angry
and I am so sorry
and I yelled
      I screamed
      I roared
why are you still here
why are you making me like you
why did you come here and
hold me
and keep me here with you
I am not the one who is dead
and I said
and I regret
and I am so sorry
I can’t have you here
go away
and
leave me alone

and you did.
You left me
all alone.

Why would you leave me?