Departures

As we entwine more deeply,
your forearm snaked around my left elbow and wrist,
the soft sheets threaten to hold us in place
like butterflies pinned to cork by their fragile wings.

Tears ease a path to my pillow and your palm,
seeking a pool already soaked into cotton,
but your breath melts my shoulder and
steeps my spine in acceptance.

I think about the meaning behind your words.
You speak off-the-cuff, tactless and immediate.
Blunt butter knife that leaves me bleeding so slightly.
What am I to believe? You misspoke.
Or that you meant every quick comment.

I sometimes wonder why I beg you.
Please tell me something sweet. Remind me that you care.
Why do I ask? Only two months ago I never thought to.
I never had to. You were glad to share happiness.

I call you handsome. You call me a grouch.
And our recent phone call was destiny, it seems.
My tears elicited your anger
and I sometimes realize this is unhealthy.
I’m amazed I don’t realize this more often.
I wish the metal rose would wilt,
hammered petals falling with my hopes.

But then I would have to admit
my assessment of you was incorrect.
Off by more than a mile.
Wiping the slate clean of my chalk scribbles
That I once considered handsome.