Spun sonnets from sorrow,
like a long-worn pair of boots, I’ve been walking.
Holes in each sole, her eyes,
& I, with walls talking
crossed hearts, crass words.
Tomorrow I will learn to breathe yet again,
in eight-or-nine-lettered pauses,
I, *breathe*,
I love you,
you were everything I wanted.
But you
didn’t
love me.
Left me recovering in a three step process,
the nights we spent together, I processed,
and progressed to remember the lies you left on my skin.
“I… I think I love you.”
You only loved him in the bedroom.
And if we’d had room to talk and think,
I think you would have known.
And I? Still, I would have loved you.