His well-like soul --
Days I could have dropped down a stone
And never hear the splash
Of it landing in water.
His giving out of wounds, like gifts;
Using words to cut me open
And then threatening with salty fist.
His amber-colored medicine bottles
With names that sound so familiar:
Jack, Jim, Johnny.
His wrapping himself around me
Like a question mark --
His begging me to be the answer.
His overturning of our lives
Like a box of garage sale toys.
His hunger
For more power,
More secrets,
More time.
His loveliness.
His lips, chest, hands
Like poetry.
I still look at him and see poetry.
His control
Of everything,
Even the places in my head.
His trap-door questions.
His suspicion,
His unwavering faith
That I was lying.
His apologies,
Replacing words like ‘unhealthy’
With ones like ‘compromise,’
His promise to be better.
His desperation,
His heartsickness and aching,
My “I was hoping things had changed.”
His “I was hoping so, too.”
His ocean eyes.
Misty, stormy, impossibly blue.
It is hard to stop loving the ocean,
Even after it spits you out
Gasping and terrified.
His all-out war,
His blitzkrieg assault,
His never yield.
His never give in.
His phone calls,
Two-years-later voicemails.
His “please, baby, please.”
His never give in.
His pull up to my doorstep,
To my office building.
His “just one minute.”
His never give in.
His show up uninvited,
His cornering me in the shadows.
His breath hot on my face.
His whisper – “I will never give in.”
Sometimes the bravest thing left to do is surrender.
Days I could have dropped down a stone
And never hear the splash
Of it landing in water.
His giving out of wounds, like gifts;
Using words to cut me open
And then threatening with salty fist.
His amber-colored medicine bottles
With names that sound so familiar:
Jack, Jim, Johnny.
His wrapping himself around me
Like a question mark --
His begging me to be the answer.
His overturning of our lives
Like a box of garage sale toys.
His hunger
For more power,
More secrets,
More time.
His loveliness.
His lips, chest, hands
Like poetry.
I still look at him and see poetry.
His control
Of everything,
Even the places in my head.
His trap-door questions.
His suspicion,
His unwavering faith
That I was lying.
His apologies,
Replacing words like ‘unhealthy’
With ones like ‘compromise,’
His promise to be better.
His desperation,
His heartsickness and aching,
My “I was hoping things had changed.”
His “I was hoping so, too.”
His ocean eyes.
Misty, stormy, impossibly blue.
It is hard to stop loving the ocean,
Even after it spits you out
Gasping and terrified.
His all-out war,
His blitzkrieg assault,
His never yield.
His never give in.
His phone calls,
Two-years-later voicemails.
His “please, baby, please.”
His never give in.
His pull up to my doorstep,
To my office building.
His “just one minute.”
His never give in.
His show up uninvited,
His cornering me in the shadows.
His breath hot on my face.
His whisper – “I will never give in.”
Sometimes the bravest thing left to do is surrender.