Thursday, July 24, 2014

What might have been?

I guess that's what I wanted to say.
That I thought we really had something here. That's all.
Me too.

So now it is I who should forgive the sweet liar (for no such optimism should go unpunished).


He still tells me he loves me every morning
and as I emerge from a haze of restless dreams
I often wonder if, with each passing day, in these tragically sweet moments,
and before the commitment of dawn
if he means it a little less than the day before.

Overtones of disappointment punctuate our every move.
Our present is muted by our future and what might have been a great love recedes as quietly as it came. 

I study his face - 
his pores
the crinkles near his eyes
hints of silver at his temples.
He can stare at the ceiling, expressionless,
for so long
but when I ask him what he is thinking he says
and I'm afraid that I believe him.


my brain is abuzz with sensation
constantly churning and negotiating and wondering

and this is how I know he will do fine when I am gone for good.