i think i've realized
the ballads of your virtues
do not do you justice.
details of your murders
twisted to be heroic.
i pride myself in remembering things
no one else knows
like
how sweetly you sung
the softness of your cheek
the way your laugh bubbled up inside, infectious.
i am glad to have those memories for myself
call me selfish
but you were always
my achilles

-love, patroclus

there is one language of love
they tell me
i try and try again
but i think my tongue is tied.

we are all open books written in an old language
waiting for someone to come and translate
our story
our words.
be patient
the translator is coming.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

i was always an open book
just written in a dead language.
all the translators were wrong,
time and time again
until you came along.

i trusted you with my heart
carefully encased in a glass cage.
“be careful,” i said.
“it’s fragile”.
you nodded
and took the cage with two hands.
how did i not notice the greed
that guided your fingers to wrap around the bars?

is it possible
to view the past with an affectionate eye?
will i stop judging
critiquing
cringing
at every thing i’ve ever done?
what is childhood
what is innocence
if not for the blissful ignorance that accompanies it?
i miss being a child
to be free
uncaring
i could change if i wanted to
but i guess i fear change
who doesn’t