Perhaps, Love
is not so much about holding
you in my arms to sleep
at night, feeling your fingers
tighten around my wrist;
softened breathing
and wrinkled sheets.
is not so much about money spent,
a hundred and fifty dollars
in between days and nights
of angst; bottled up with
deadly silences of unspoken,
unappreciative thanks.
I will miss
moments when we didn’t fear;
when we didn’t think we needed
a plan, when we believed in
a miracle that sizzled away
like water in a frying pan.
when hope was stronger
than reality, like wishful
thinking upon the sand.
Perhaps, Love
is letting you slip away
from my hands, watching
your hair sway in the wind
without my grasp, letting go
because I know I am not
the best.
is realizing I was your
8 month vacation;
and now, you want to
go home,
Knowing that in you,
I have built mine.
; 