Maybe it was the way
you strode in with a
confidence unbreakable

or your smile
that spoke phrases
that only the heart can hear

or your accent
that makes everything
sound like a question

or maybe it was just you
just you
and you alone

It’s funny (sad, scary)
how morning quickly turns into night,
the sunshine into rain,
joy into sorrow,
and someone who loves you
into someone who did.

I knew I didn’t
love him
when I couldn’t
write about him.

I’ve seen beautiful
I’ve seen beautiful
but nothing
and no one
was as beautiful
as you.

What made us think that anyone who fails to love us is damaged, lacking, malfunctioning in some way? And particularly if they replace us with a god, or a weeping madonna, or the face of Christ in a ciabatta roll—-then we call them crazy. Deluded. Regressive. We are so convinced of the goodness of ourselves, and the goodness of our love, we cannot bear to believe that there might be something more worthy of love than us, more worthy of worship. Greeting cards routinely tell us everybody deserves love. No. Everybody deserves clean water. Not everybody deserves love all the time.
Her scars are scars,
her eyes are blue
because they are,
and he never felt the need
to romanticize every part
of her being
because he takes them all
for what they are.