I.

I used to have a young girl's heart.
It was August then,
when the air was still thick
with promise and trust,
and Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here"
brought us together,
would later be our anthem.

You mentioned fate and
I felt it mid-May,
when our souls slow-danced briefly
as I threw my arms around your neck,
like we knew each other all along
because
we cared with
reckless, childish innocence,
didn't know it until
our realizations collided
like two cars ardently rushing,
not meaning to hurt the other.

On New York sidewalks
my face colored from the
heat of your eyes.
I couldn't escape your warmth
and I still can't because
I feel you in my sleep
lying next to me,
clasping my hand so we'd never part.
I wish we'd lain like that when we met,
instead of rushing flames to
strip my body
and burn the last remnants
of what I thought love should be.

I thought I said no,
thought the implication was clear,
but you couldn't see through lust's haze,
mistook fear and discomfort with nervousness,
and your crooked teeth barred my tongue
from giving what sweetness
I saved my whole life for you,
as you kissed my neck
the way feral animals
find food in scarce winters --
with furious hunger
rushed by uncertainty
of the next time.

My reticent heart still feels foolish
for risking great vulnerability
in your cavalier hands.

II.

Growing up wasn't supposed to feel empty,
make you leave your body to cope
as it happens to you.
I thought it was passion,
told myself so while covering
the red and purple you left me,
but it was self-serving, systematic,
the way you herded me in and closed
your bedroom's slaughterhouse door.

I thought love was a deep knowing that
life changed and shaped you
to fit another so perfectly,
made you content
like coming home after
places you'd rather forget.
I thought I was the hearth,
but you warmed yourself
with thoughts of burnt out flames
and I grew cold.

You said they left
like smoke after fleeting fireworks,
but their afterglow you basked in
took my light and singed me,
scorched the earth
so nothing could grow to fruition.

We didn't know you'd
leave gaping wounds
love couldn't mend,
that the past of yours
and ours
would **** any good moment
they touched.

My heart broke into pieces of flint
and I searched the pile for
any fragments of tender times
to desperately dash them
against each other,
strike sparks and set fire,
like maybe I could weld this together
into something whole again
and love you painlessly;
but an embittering rain fell when
I saw you watched me wither and
stitch myself into something smaller
after your idealized times,
still sharp in your mind,
tore me apart.

You could've saved us,
quickly quieted my thoughts
with truth's entirety, but
pride hollowed your mouth
to fill with excuses, blame, and lies
that stole my trust --
and that weighs
heavier in my heart
than your words themselves.
No wonder forgiveness
slowly limped along and
died before reaching you.

III.

I once believed
I wasted
the best parts of myself,
was emptied by others'
callous carelessness;
but a week with you
I felt something,
like every kiss mended hairline cracks
the first day brought,
like my mouth on your skin
and hands on your body
didn't know they were searching
until I pulled away
and swore I found what tasted like
the rest of my life on your lips,
swore I glimpsed
your aged eyes looking at me
like I was still the last and only
to matter enough
for a smile from you.

We whispered "I love you"
and they'll stay
in the crooks of our necks
for years,
but your earnest hands
could never lift
what you likened an uphill boulder
but was more like a cross
because
we were thick as thieves and
died on that hill.

On opposite sides of love
we shouted our grievances
until we speared our sides
and spilled every reason
this could still work,
resurrected and repeated
until there was more mercy in
leaving each other
nailed to a splintered
dream that died
as we bowed our heads
and walked away.

IV.

You told me,
"It's like you never left"
after weekends together,
and I'm realizing you didn't mean your apartment.
I want to say,
"Honey, come home.
I love you.
I've left the lights of my heart on for you,"
but I don't want to risk us
continuing as broken horses
yolked on a carousel
spinning too erratically
for us to stomach.

I still close my eyes
with the obscene hope
that maybe if my lids could
hold tighter than even we did
my tears could blur
the pain and love you gave
into lasting forgiveness for future's sake.

Loving in effigy
is my worst fear, too.