I. One day, the moon will forgive me for all the ways I broke myself, until I was a driftwood crumbling into dust, stirring on the edge of your bed — all the faint traces of the ocean gone. The moon will forgive me for growing bruises where your lips once staked claim.
No, that was not my fall from grace, I whisper; my skin has long abandoned tenderness at the doorstep of the first boy who broke my heart. Maybe I had been broken since. Now, there are some things you can never fix: all the bones that you'd once held are all the bones that break.
II. And I know, it'll forgive me for sinking into the comfort a stranger's sheets somewhere in this bleak, forgotten town. It's been a month, and I am made of lows and pathetic attempts to forget your voice. And the moon knows I was never cut out for love — only for things that resemble it. So when you wrung poems out of my tangled pulseline, when you muttered you loved me that July night, it'll forgive me for sighing myself to oblivion, having been undone by your gaze. It'll forgive me for having wanted to die in your arms. And oh, it was beautiful while it lasted.
We were beautiful while we lasted.
III. And still, I am never cut out for love. The one I know is made for burning down cathedrals. For leaving dead flowers in the gaps of your ribs. For throwing poems under the bridge. For throwing myself thereafter. I always had a proclivity for things that leave me hurting in the aftermath of disasters. And there are no poems left to make sense of it all. Just erratic thoughts. Just a flight risk caught in the loose ends where memories are left to rot.
No, there are no poems to write anymore. Just heartbreak. Just lonely rooms, and drawn curtains, and your scent, fading from these sheets — held close. In silence. Despite it all.
IV. And one day, the moon will forgive me for wanting to stay when I should be leaving.
Maybe I will forgive myself too.
