“You’re perfect for me.
But I don’t think I’m perfect for you,”
you confided
one frigid, winter morning,
when all I wanted
was you.
Days, weeks,
months passed.
I was convinced,
I’d convinced you,
that my heart was true.
Beguiled by your smiles,
I was;
inveigled by your words,
I remained.
You wanted space,
you needed time.
I was happy to
give them to you.
I’d already given you myself.
How could a man
of such calculated decisions,
not see
the error in his ways?
Hours felt like years,
in your absence.
You were gone one minute,
and there the next.
A state of
seemingly perpetual
flux.
Until you weren’t at all.
You left me with nothing,
but silent stabs,
to the heart.
Lacerations made,
with a blunt blade;
cuts as coarse,
as our city’s streets.
Unintentional, unnoticed, they were,
but the pain, like any other.
Grief and gratefulness
were never meant to coexist,
yet somehow
I wished I had never met you,
and was thankful that I did,
all at once.
I still don’t know why,
nor do you.
But I’m better now.
I hope you are too.
