I always said you’d break up with me,
(not seeing the power words have over us.)
Within seven months, before May grew pregnant,
you were gone.
You did not leave me as I feared, but you did not bypass my words,
which took over my tears and the gulps and swallows;
regenerating fresh saliva, to form more words, soon lost by the invisible hands on my cell phone,
misdirecting time so that the time spent with you went from now to then.
I spoke what I felt, what I thought to be utterly true
Because how could you love someone crumbling on the outside
and oozing with hot tar pain on the inside?
How could you love me?
You didn’t, you never said it, but I grew incapable of avoiding that metaphorical heart concept:
My heart dictated my hands that formed meals and massages and meltdowns.
You weathered my compulsions and the storms that overtook my countenance and threw you so far from my shore that even swimming to reach me took your patience and your prowess.
But you found a way. You always did. Every week, for months,
from a time when we melded egg white, egg yolk, to a time when oil and water tried in vain to caress.
I was your girl, and you answered my every problem with a solution,
And your eyes sought the truth in mine and we formed our own.
Us two, forever never and then.
