It's come to this-
shame and guilt and fear
and a couple years.
(Has it really gone so fast?)
I try not to see you
across the room,
and still try to move closer
to see if you can stand it
without buckling
caving
craving.
Do you remember springtime?
The middle of the night
lying on our backs
between the trees and gravestones?
You cried.
You always cried.
I kissed your tears--
I was a foolish girl, far from home.
But you weren't,
were you.
The one day you didn't beat the postman to your door.
You had a decision to make--
and you did.
(I can't believe she let you.)
There are nights
I know
when you're alone
in the silvery glare of midnight,
you toss and turn still
afflicted
tortured
and craving softness in the
wee morning hours,
none is to be found.

And I hate you more than I thought I could.