I learned: comfort in escape.
Yet, when we met on the train
five years ago, heading into the city,
I made myself hang on.
We both missed our stop that day.
You say, “Love is like Jenga.
We start with the perfect structure,
all the pieces intertwined
in their sturdiest formation.
And even though we know
the rules, how they demand
pulling the pieces apart,
one by one
until the framework falls,
we still play the game,
bracing ourselves as we come undone.”
I’m sorry not that we played,
but that we played by those rules;
we kept score while disassembling
and now I see you in fragments,
strewn like wreckage
among the woof and warp
of our time together.
We lie on opposite ends of the world,
wondering who won.
But when I close my eyes,
I find your hand again,
feel the way it fits into mine,
then slowly trace your arm
to the crevice of your chest
where I have buried myself so many mornings.
I feel you waking,
and so turn my face to yours,
the stead of your stare
disarming in the quiet space between us.
When you lean in, your stubbled cheek
presses against my forehead,
in rough contrast to soft strands of hair,
falling on me, on you.
Your breath, swarming with last night,
slides through me like a haunted melody,
chills and all, and we are a tangle
of limbs and sheets,
an undefined structure where you begin
and I end.
I could simply say,
“I don’t love you anymore.”
Instead I write, taking comfort
in words, in the quiet pleasure
of soaking you in black and white,
of giving you back your form.
(photo by Ashley McCue “Love Never Ends”)