i. you said I was yours and I agreed
you asked me to say it and I did
I said you were mine and you agreed
I asked you to say it and you did

and now you’re not mine
but I’m still yours
and I can’t ask you to be mine
and you won’t ask me to be yours.

ii. where do you go when suddenly
the house, your metaphorical safety net, disappears into the air
the paper white walls disintegrate
and the honey hardwood floors melt away?

where do you go when that give and take
is suddenly all give and there is no
confirmation of payment, no package in the mail,
but I see you down the street with someone else,
exchanging P.O. box addresses and making plans to build your house
with something stronger than paper white walls and honey hardwood floors?

iii. move on, they say.
but how do you move on
when you don’t have yourself anymore?
you lost it in a sea of blue-grey eyes
and gently calloused hands
and a voice so melodic you’d melt.
you lost your name and your home
and you gave it away without a second thought.