A fountain of unspoken words,
a symphony of mental disorders,
there was magic in the palm of your hands when you first wrapped them around mine,
the landscape of your back shielded me from winter,
it was calm, and mild,
we rode through March together.
I sat on a white chair in the basement of your mom’s house
and you knelt in front of me, in between legs,
a sanctimony of lives melding together
compromises far into the horizon.
When I biked to your street, I felt hope stir inside me,
I cherished the light that bathed me in the mornings
of days spent tangled in each other’s legs,
peering at you from the corner of my eye
as the television slowly took the space over
Sitting in your car and I can’t help but feel
the silence entomb me,
the strain of this
no longer limitless, or hopeful,
just distrust and lethargy.
If only you knew the world I lived in for a decade,
perhaps a bond stronger than love
could bind us.