All Love

If it were me, I would have burned

my knees scavenging the library shelves

for books on forgetting. Potions, alcohol,

other men. I would tell you

I have been here before. I have known

the touch of men who did not love me

and the sting of those who did not want me

at all. You have found your own means

of comfort: the dog eared flaps

of your books of poetry. The intimacy

you have searched for in plays

and people. You know this: everyone

will experience it. We will fall

into songs, photographs, the graffiti

on the inside of bathroom stalls. If we are lucky, sometimes

we will fall in love with each other. Not all of us

should be so lucky. Love will persist

even when it should not. We were born liars.

If we are unlucky enough, we will lie

to ourselves. Most of us should be so unlucky.

What words did you tuck into sleep

with him each night? How many dreams

did you allow him to visit? Who have you become,

embodied, abandoned since your love unfolded?

How do we forgive the opportunities we were never granted?

I ask because I do not quite know how to tell this story

myself. I know this: sleep. He is not thinking

about you. Think of you he may, your brain

will not ring with the pain of his presence.

You have been a woman

for so much longer than you have loved him.

You are whole jars of maple syrup

brimming like tanks of petroleum gas.

He, a boy, a memory made

from your exhaust, looks to you

and wonders if he should ever be

so lucky to be as full of anything

as you are your love. You are a god

of details, of gentle touch.

A god of love left open. Everything

ceases to be. We cannot

escape it. You will feel

its omnipotence as you finish

an excellent coffee, as you learn

to let him go, as you soak up

these final words I have given you.