Words fall; they clatter to the floor like
the shoes the five-year-old discarded
or things returning to gravity
after an extended time in space.
These thoughts had just been dancing
between us, whipping between us
ruffling our hair and mussing
any claim we had to perfection.
But then, you snapped your fingers
and they fell. Harmless, motionless
there on the floor where we dropped
them, and, by will, we forgot them.
Yet: I did not snap my fingers.
I let go when I saw your words fall;
I let go and mine fell too, joining
yours in sparse synchronicity.
(and you don't know what an act
of blank force that was for me
to fall with you in a mad hope
that I don't even grasp or hold)
I know you think it was your snap
alone that made the words fall down
to be dead and harmless echoes
for you to forget so promptly.
But I let go. Through bitter choice,
determination. Sad reaching
for character and battered love.
My words were pain; yours were knives.
I'm glad you dropped them. Obviously.
And I'm glad I did, seamlessly
so that you wouldn't notice how
we just papered over my blood.
Forgiveness is a sticky thing,
most brilliant when drowned in concealed tears.
And my words, fading equal with yours—
the messy debris of the holy.
Mar 22, 2023
Mar 22, 2023 at 4:54 PM UTC
Words fall; they clatter to the floor like
the shoes the five-year-old discarded
or things returning to gravity
after an extended time in space.
These thoughts had just been dancing
between us, whipping between us
ruffling our hair and mussing
any claim we had to perfection.
But then, you snapped your fingers
and they fell. Harmless, motionless
there on the floor where we dropped
them, and, by will, we forgot them.
Yet: I did not snap my fingers.
I let go when I saw your words fall;
I let go and mine fell too, joining
yours in sparse synchronicity.
(and you don't know what an act
of blank force that was for me
to fall with you in a mad hope
that I don't even grasp or hold)
I know you think it was your snap
alone that made the words fall down
to be dead and harmless echoes
for you to forget so promptly.
But I let go. Through bitter choice,
determination. Sad reaching
for character and battered love.
My words were pain; yours were knives.
I'm glad you dropped them. Obviously.
And I'm glad I did, seamlessly
so that you wouldn't notice how
we just papered over my blood.
Forgiveness is a sticky thing,
most brilliant when drowned in concealed tears.
And my words, fading equal with yours—
the messy debris of the holy.
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