TBD7

Our names are not suited

to be shared in circles

of considerable, moral intent.

The amount of time having

passed us by eschews

the accountability called for,

put into a rage by none other

than the love we share.

With what words written

will we warn the other?

Letters, addressed in anger,

are driven by consequence

designed over the better part

of a decade,

formed of forgotten efforts

to learn why not to love.

Delivered, I turn away,

yet unmistakably detect

the click of the lock turning

as your door begins to open.

It was the man I expected,

standing tall in the doorway.

I too, was the sort he figured,

who had left something behind.

“Excuse me, but I believe you

dropped this,” he said,

holding up the letter left on the step.

But I didn’t stop, I didn’t turn,

I continued walking slowly on,

undoubtedly clear of what fate

had waiting should I address him.

“Excuse me, hey!” I heard,

but my choice had already been made.