I loved you and such is the most succulent sorrow to be written over like one scar upon another, erased and retold, I can hardly remember the way your fingers intwined with mine and settled like the roots of the tree resting in the front yard of our minds. The gated iron face was weakening, left, unattended by our neglect, our endless longing. The path was smoothed out for us. I didn't desire to work in the coal mines for you, lungs, black and tender, to hold in the weight of your laughter and me, caged, hummingbird. So persistent is the exit wound between two broken ribs. You would kiss the scar tissue. Tell me all would be well and I would weep because how could it ever be so lovely as it was before my fears rose to the surface like a bloated porpoise bobbing with the current and I'd stretch out my arms like I am declaring allegiance. To the starlit collisions that illuminate this fate we were committed to from the start, to the god I dare to mock: once I loved you, and you, I. Once I lied.