I thought
I know—

I'll write a poem about another love,
one of those boys from
one of those poems
that I wrote
before you,

and in doing so
I will ease this ache,
I will appease
the part of me
that just wants
to be wanted,

you know?

But, no—
I couldn't conjure their kisses,
nor did I want to.
They were just 
boys from 
those poems
that I wrote
before you.

I only said I love you once,
one early morning while you slept.
I was quiet so as not to wake you;
I said it softly, then I left.

I wasn't sure I meant it then;
if I loved, I did so badly,
to let it wait until the day
that I could only say it sadly.

In the early spring,
we hung brightly colored yarn
from the low branches.
It would slowly disappear;
above, brilliant nests were built.

I saw a photo
of a plain little farmhouse;
I imagined us
kissing in the bright kitchen
and lilacs in jelly jars.

June evening, mid-sigh,
she holds a finger to her
lips, then to the sky;
pools of sundown flood the fields.
She trusts the breeze to find him.

Little more than listless guests,
we play the game I-need-you-less.


Discord, missed turn, second guess;
things are different. Bitter? Yes.


Weary, naked– I'll confess;
you drew your hooked line through my chest


so meet me in your battledress
and if your blade finds  tender flesh,


I swear that with my dying breath
I'll say * "I won. I need you less."

Cue our story halfway through,
without the benefit or detriment of history—
affinity, no past attached;
you don't know me, I don't know you,
but yet, we do.