Sometimes I think I could have loved you.
Quietly, in my way,
like a guarded mist that surrounded you.

You must have been blind,
at least in that temporary way,
playfully,
to have known my deluded cloud-ness,
to desire that weather,
to even let my
encumbered enchanting
E-R-I-N
out into what swallowed us.

I am what you fear I am
and my fog has left my love impalpable,
even to myself.

I am what I fear I am
nothingness
pure speculation--
If my heart beats, it is only to shut its own doors.

As a child, many great green vines of wild honeysuckle overwhelmed our wooden fences. Beautifully misplaced and sweet-smelling I drank their nectar out of appreciation for these small gods.

Every summer we would slash and tear them apart for the fear that soon they would overwhelm our boundaries.
How bare our home seemed without them.

But my whole life
has been practice
at protecting my fences,
and I have come to love them so fiercely
that now
no seeds
are thrown
there at all.

You should know I still adore wild honeysuckle,

and that darling,
sometimes,
I think I could have loved you.