I let my hands slip
from your shoulder blades
only a few seconds after your
arms had dropped to your sides.
Feel better, have a good night
but you can't cry to me anymore
you said it with your bloodshot eyes
the forcefulness of your voice proclaiming
that you've loved her for longer than anyone else.
I stood there, biting my lip thinking
does it really matter how long
you've loved someone for
or is it all based on how
hard you fight, the
passion in your
words and the
taste of your lover
printed all over your skin.
Two years of dim comfort cannot
combat two months of struggle, constant
kicking down of walls and kisses with smoke
in between. Letters miles long with the word "never"
attached to "stop" connected with "loving you."
Mattresses with sheets and easy sleep won't
compare to uncertainty of where to rest
my head, being more concerned with
the state of yours and your self
worth. Two months of loving
passionately does not even
need to fight against
two years of rest.
It always wins.