I remember when you told me.
I had to go back,
reread like I was editing a paper when
your final revision had been made.
My heart fell to the bottom of the ocean that held
the boat we sailed on.
My eyes still remember the salty water over hesitant moons and I
double over.
I crawl to the bathroom and say
“this can’t be true”
Dry heaving my feelings from my stomach and turned
to face a light.
Shield my eyes from the florescent lighting in
the operating room where
you were the surgeon and
I was the patient.
You ripped me one piece by piece but
I was under.
I couldn't see then but the scars from the
stitches made of your words reminded me
of the pain.
The medication, your eyes.
Seen once or twice a week over FaceTime
just enough to ease the hurt until-
the next time we saw each other and
prayed the distance would be removed.
but you didn't like the silence of the space vortex I tried to build around us.
So I kept my feet on the ground.
For you, of course.