i remember this feeling
trying to sleep
in a sticky bed
at the heat between us.
our sheets ended up soaked
by our slumber. years later, i can
conjure up that smell:
i don't invest so much, anymore. if the
covers go clammy, i kick them away.
i'm thinking downstairs in the den
that love is only the illusion you make
to give hope something to lean on
as a crutch.
i notice you're a bit quick
to tell me
you love me now,
and now i'm quick
to shut up.
the kind of love i build bonfires for
is love that's not returned,
and i know it.
sometimes, we define ourselves
by who decides to leave us,
so now i’m busy learning to leave others, hoping
if i learn well enough,
why the ones who leave us
don't look back when they're out the door.