oh, to be a
delicate thing
in these feral waves;

i remember steady grounds,
veneered floors,
greek columns —
my hand pressed softly
in the small of your back;
fingers —
aching
for the slightest of touch,
i remember sunlight;
our hearts were
lighter back then.
oh how we were
the envy
of chaotic things
and lonely gods.

now,
look at this war
i'd waged for you
as termites
eat away
at those
sunlit memories;


what's the point of fighting
when the sea already
has swallowed
and spat poems
written from the
losing side
of this war:
a mess
of what used to be
a delicate love;
now,
i'll fit
all of these
heartbreaks
in a letter if i could —
leave it on your shore.


and i
loved you
so;
i remember you
loving me back, helen;
i remember
sunlight
and
happier times.


now this love
is a wreck
of a battleship,
sinking,
drowning
in the weight
of these sighs.

now this love
are embers
dressed
in all
the muted shades of blue.

now this love
is not delicate —

it's just
breakable.

it's just
broken.

and oh how we were
the envy
of chaotic things
and lonely gods.