III. Revisiting Shattered Glass. Or, A Love Letter to Moving On and Loving You Still

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There are fights I am not yet ready to raise fists

for and I am not yet ready to stop loving you

but these limbs had grown weary and these hands

are coming undone and these eyes are no metaphor


There are words which refuse to find themselves between us,

“I loved you.” “-

I am more afraid to say you hurt me than to keep thinking you don’t or won’t care “-


And words abstract our being,

all that we are as poetic license; retone and touch up

until Distance                                                                        is                                                                       warmth

Melt me down to                                                                                        concept,


you cannot love in the abstract,

cannot feel in the abstract

Still brand the inside of this mouth your

own and I will bear these contorted crescent moons


and watch dawn with me


but this silence is not poetic

just prose

and these limbs are not lithe

not smooth, cannot contort and this heart is no acrobat,


There is no beauty left in this space

But I see beauty in us, everywhere.


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