She couldn’t bring herself to believe that you held your ground for her,
those nights you crossed the highways
and stoplights to reach her doorstep
only to tell her why you can’t use those dusty lungs,
filled with rust and waste, crushing the air you breathe in.

She didn’t have much to say.

You didn’t have much to offer,
just a lot of heart and a little dash of bitter biting your tongue with the ideas that your father put in your head,
the ones that tell you that you can’t feel the beat of your own heart
or taste the saltwater crashing down on your own weathered hands.

No, you gotta be a man.

She listened to your words and chewed on it for a while,
and gathered all her strength to pour the mason jar of alcohol you stashed in her cupboards for last two years down the sink,
as you yelled up to whoever might be listening,

“I never knew it’d go this far, I never thought I’d be this way.”

So she turned on the lights,
made your bed and you laid down to another restless night,
following and circling the cycle you have fallen for over

And over

And over again.