Where did you go? Where did the girl I love retreat to. Yes it was quick. Yes it was a whirlwind of love and lust and red wine. Yes it seemed fast to lie naked under the covers and talk about moving in together and going to France this summer. But no it wasn’t on the rocks. It wasn’t dangerous, somehow. It was right. I have to believe it was. The way you looked at me like I had dropped from the sky. The way you brushed the mud off of my face that pasted itself there while I was crawling through the rock of depression and loneliness. The way we stood in a forest on the banks of the Hudson and stared at the stars, me armed with a flashlight and you with your child-like wonder. You were so many things to so many people, and I was in love with you. The you deep-down below your sternum. The you hidden from the vultures that circled above you. Where did you go? 48 hours and now I can’t see your eyes. I can’t break through your walls, lined with harpies that tell you aren’t good enough. I can’t cut through the fields that keep you in a bubble.
You are enough. You always were. You are not a burden. You gave my life purpose and adventure — I have no reason to trek from Queens to Brooklyn at 1 am anymore. I’ll no longer lie in bed with you talking about anything and everything, your eyes ablaze with passion like the cigarette in my hand.
I wish you knew I wanted to hold you like atlas — keeping the sky from crashing down on your world. I’m not a martyr, I’m a lover, and I’ll always be yours.