what we risk is permanence.
the foreverness of this.

because you’ll never be her.

and he’ll never be me.
never search the world for you.
you won’t feel his presence in your mornings,
like the days you knew we’d meet.

and while you’ll no longer push away my kisses
the ones that brushed the back of your throat,
your laughter won’t touch the ceiling,
and those cravings won’t ache at all.

but call it even, darling.
for she won’t carry our memories,
won’t bathe in the pale-blue light,
pouring sweet through the windows
of that bedroom by the bay.

and even as she sleeps beside me,
she’ll never turn to recite
the waterfall of your words,
never shape them
in that perfect velveteen lilt—

the one that ruined me,
ever so gently.

it was ineffable, really—
the closeness we carved out
armed with only words.

yes, darling, words,
not lightning,
that tied the string that bound us,
turned us into softened, maddened children
dancing around a flame,
and for three whole seasons,
our souls baked together
in horaltic pose,
begging to be born again
in the sun,
innocent and true,
like long before we ever broke skin.

-

so curse it now,
that cursed fear we felt
when the string went limp,
not because it frayed and broke,
but because we were so close,
there was no tension left at all.