You’re still a man
Not just a man, but it’s what you are
There’s nothing to be done
I remember being 18, in ways which are often unfond
I recall a fierce and sincere conviction,
One of truth and tenderness
And pathetic devotion,
Not because the man in front of me was truthful, nor tender
Not because he made me feel alive in any way that was earnest
Certainly not because it was love
I was 18
I was only a girl. I am only a girl

I made promises in the mirror
Promises of contentedness. Promises of a time when I’d forget how to yearn
I understand, intimately, the fragility of my own words
I repent in the way that I often forget
That everything that makes me who I am, exists in everybody that I love
Their guarantees are delicate. Their words, unsafe
Over and over again, I break my own heart

Would you punish me for knowing that I adore you?
I do. Adore you, I mean
It’s in everything you say that I am certain you could never be so soulless
Now, and only now, I feel alive in a way which doesn’t feel dishonest
Never ignited by a cruelty which I once confounded with intensity
But by a vulnerability which I now know exists  

There’s nothing about you that I resent
I wonder at times if there’s anything about you that I deserve
I feel the heaviness in your heart, and I forget that
you’re still a man
That’s what you are
Still, I look at you and you remind me of every conviction for which I ache
Every conviction I thought was decayed with delusion
The truth in your eyes, the tenderness in your laugh
It’s in every part of you that you awaken memories of a gentle love that I never had