We lay face to face, quietly drawing blood,
reveling in the romantic notion that if it hurts, it’s real…
that this streaming metallic aftermath is a testament to really living.
I wish I had whispered I love you in that quiet moment
but the “living” we did bled the life right out of me
before I had the chance.
And despite mortifying flesh wounds and burns weeping
from two years of tug-of-war,
I never bore your proximity without spreading myself.
Now, I can’t get the things you said out of my head.
I still feel like you are halfway inside me.
I wanted you to be worth it.
Maybe you were.
Someday, you will wake surrounded by a foreign scene.
You may feel a great pain, and briefly long to reverse time,
convinced that living was beginning to bleed the life right out of you.
Then you’ll remember that we cannot help but survive.
I’m going to miss you. I don’t know where to go from here.
But when I do, I’ll leave flesh on the rungs as I climb,
and I won’t stop until I am high enough to hoist a surrender flag,
and lay this one to rest.