the first time you told me you were in love with me,
it was in a letter (you
and you didn't dare even write the word. never were brave enough
to love me
openly.)
the first time you told me you were in love with me,
it was when you were leaving me for him. (i wasn't worth
the price;
you did a
cost-benefit analysis
you never left me, really. and cut your losses.)
he left and we returned to what we were before
him, as if we'd pressed pause
if i closed my eyes i could almost believe
it would be okay
we were still glowing-gold
and perfect.
but instead of the synchronicity,
some unnameable tension, the jarring sensation
that something in us was out of alignment. (i asked you to wait:
give me time,
some days more to play pretend.)
the first time you told me you weren't in love with me
was just after you told me you would have married me
would have run away with me
(as if i weren't the
teenager, here. as if it were my fault
for not being selfish
the heartbreak, the loss of ignorance and asking you to.)
was what brought us back in sync. you wrote once
about the end, the devastation that the city of us
was victim to. (we're finding that the damage is
less like an explosion
and more like an
earthquake: broken glass, aftershocks, and
the first time i told you i wasn't in love with you cracks in the
anymore, foundation)
i didn't know why, hadn't noticed the cracks in the pavement;
i had only just started to see
the shards of glass.
you kissed me ten days ago, and said you didn't know why
it didn't feel wrong, why it didn't feel like cheating.
it's starting over again, i told you. the glass is being swept up,
our pieces falling back into place. (it's the natural order for us;
this, darling, our effortless cohesion, will always
rebuild the city.)
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 12:35 AM UTC
the first time you told me you were in love with me,
it was in a letter (you
and you didn't dare even write the word. never were brave enough
to love me
openly.)
the first time you told me you were in love with me,
it was when you were leaving me for him. (i wasn't worth
the price;
you did a
cost-benefit analysis
you never left me, really. and cut your losses.)
he left and we returned to what we were before
him, as if we'd pressed pause
if i closed my eyes i could almost believe
it would be okay
we were still glowing-gold
and perfect.
but instead of the synchronicity,
some unnameable tension, the jarring sensation
that something in us was out of alignment. (i asked you to wait:
give me time,
some days more to play pretend.)
the first time you told me you weren't in love with me
was just after you told me you would have married me
would have run away with me
(as if i weren't the
teenager, here. as if it were my fault
for not being selfish
the heartbreak, the loss of ignorance and asking you to.)
was what brought us back in sync. you wrote once
about the end, the devastation that the city of us
was victim to. (we're finding that the damage is
less like an explosion
and more like an
earthquake: broken glass, aftershocks, and
the first time i told you i wasn't in love with you cracks in the
anymore, foundation)
i didn't know why, hadn't noticed the cracks in the pavement;
i had only just started to see
the shards of glass.
you kissed me ten days ago, and said you didn't know why
it didn't feel wrong, why it didn't feel like cheating.
it's starting over again, i told you. the glass is being swept up,
our pieces falling back into place. (it's the natural order for us;
this, darling, our effortless cohesion, will always
rebuild the city.)
(spacing is screwy since the site resized.)
