How can you say I go about things the wrong way?

Do you remember the summer night I pulled you
by the hand to find fireflies? I could not believe
something so small, so delicate, could hold
so much light. When they went to sleep we laid
on our backs with a bottle of wine between us and stared

at the stars. You used your scientist’s eye to show
me the constellations I’d never been able to spot
before. I loved the idea of a story unfolding
in the stars and you loved the idea of us.

When the wine was warm and I could find the Big Dipper
without your help, we undressed by moonlight and jumped
in the envelope of the lake. We pretended everyone
else was asleep and could not hear our words of ***
and love and mortality. Just as they could not see my legs
wrap around your waist in water too deep to see

the bottom. That night I asked you how you needed
to be loved. You said you didn’t know
how love felt until we met, but sometimes, you would lie
awake next to me at night and wonder, “is this it?”

And how can you say I go about things the wrong way
when I did the human thing and loved you in the only way I know?

And we are humans and need to be loved, but just because you love
someone does not mean they have to love you back.

And just because you once loved someone does not mean you should continue.