what we risk is permanent.
you’ll never be her,
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 you’d see me.
and while you’ll no longer push away the kisses
that brushed the back of your throat,
your laughter won’t touch the ceiling,
and those cravings won’t ache at all.
but we’re even, darling.
she won’t carry our memories,
won’t wake to pale-blue light,
pouring sweet through the windows
of our bedroom by the bay.
even as she breathes beside me,
she’ll never 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 simple words.
yes, darling, words,
not lightning,
that tied the string that bound us,
possessed us,
made us softened, maddened children
dancing around the flame.
and for seven whole moons,
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.