I snuck a peek at an old photo
of you
who you were—
are you still that
youthful, rippling laughter
sparkly gaze
caressing my face,
stroke of softness
under yearning fingertips?
I bought you that sweater
felt alive with you
your easy skater style
and the night you
asked when was I going
to let you have sex with me.

My answer surprised you
but you remedied my rule
and we fell in love.

We fell into
chemistry like a potion
crafted by a wild scientist
mixing melted metals
and I carried your
lust
in my bones
having to wait to see you
was intoxicating
a draught, elixir
of desire.

But then you changed

or was it that you’d
stayed the same or had I changed
or was your patina showing,
not a unique and beautiful
luster as of something
weathered, made precious by time
but a toxic truth,
conservative hate billowing from
your dragon mouth.

And when you left, you blew through
the apartment
gathering your things
and in a gust of anger
and years wasted you were
gone. I loved you then
more than you could see
and it was you, stepping over me.

Is that why they say
love is blind?
Maybe the saying got bent
somewhere along the line.
Maybe someone only ever meant
to imply
love is kind
like in Corinthians.
Because blindness isn’t acceptance
but ignorance.

And that’s why I told you to leave.
I still cried.
Because learning new, hard truth
hangs in the balance,
the fine, paradoxical line between epiphany
and the drowning of a dream.