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Loving Him
I once told myself that poets shouldn’t love,
Even if it's what we do best.
Loving and losing-
An art, chaotic and disastrous,
as unavoidable as fate
As dangerous as poison
I let myself love him
Let myself cling to his voice like a life line in a sea of darkness
Let his words thread themselves into my skin
because what alternative was there to loving him?
To forget?
Forget, even when my skin remembers his skin
Memorized it - like a musical prodigy to its favored instrument
Forget, even when my lips, my tongue remembers,
the shape of his name, the feel of the words “I love you.”
I let myself remember him
remember how the sun could thread gold into his dark curls
And turn his eyes into molten pools of amber
remember how his laugh could melt the ice around my heart
Make her bloom under his smile, like a sunflower under the sun
Make her weep in his absence, as a sunflower in the night
I will remember
vows written with teeth and calloused hands
secrets entrusted, delivered -broken- on bruised knees
Both of us, allowing ourselves
to shatter
completely,
for eachother
because only we know how to make eachother whole again
I will remember
nights, under my ceiling of rose and nectar and stars of woven gold
Where our memories hung above us in hues of black and white and sepia
Where below them we made new ones
I will remember
how it felt to love you
And as I have written before:
When the sun has become but a silvery ghost in the sky
and the pines -withered and faded- mimic our skin and our eyes
When the earth is a landfill grey petals and frost
save them in sealed glass, look upon them and
Remember me
Know that our love is not lost
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