Today if you had asked me
what love still meant to me
I would look at you,
diving in the abyss
of your brown eyes
and look at you look at me.
I'll tell you that I loved you
before the first spark
ever hit your armoured heart
to light an everlasting fire.
That the words which escaped you
cascaded down on me
like a million rivers unfolding
to reveal their anger they kept
hidden long enough
to allow the heat to die down on their own.
That the truth in things
didn't exist in the ways,
in people like we wanted to.
If love was an inferno
to walk through
you know I would.
That with every burning touch of the coal
beneath my feet
would be another step closer to victory,
closer to you.
That this was the painful esctasy of love,
and every ember was like the ones
that burnt in me for you.
And I would tell you
that you were worth it.
You were worth it all.
Today, you sent me a box
full of chocolate and poetry
and beautiful things.
You must have known
your gift was unwanted.
You must have.
You must have known
that I would read your name
and address with dread,
a hint of panic, with confusion
and consternation.
You must have known
that I would tuck the box
beneath the table
and try to ignore it for hours,
until its presence
needled me like a thorn
needing to be plucked out.
You thought you sent love
and affection in a box,
but you sent a reminder,
one of wounds and worry,
a reminder that
gifts and well-wishes
do not heal bruises
and never will.
I would send it back
full of wolves if I could.
Return To Sender from my favorite poet, Gabriel Gadfly. Truly said.
Looking at the poem I posted last year, life has changed a lot. For the better, I hope.
To the most overrated holiday of all.