You never claimed to be a saint
and I didn’t need you to be.
Best medicine for a troubled time
when I was bleeding on my own sharp edges,
in thrall to the peaks and valleys
of pursuing fantasy.
Our garbled social notions say
we must play for higher stakes
than just a lover.
We should find everything in one,
put down roots,
and never share.
But what rot to think there’s one right way,
for if we had blessed our love
with words and diamonds,
we would have swiftly killed it,
chipping at it with resentments
over what each could never be.
So we took heaven where we could find it,
and never committed the alchemist's sin
of trying to turn glitter to gold.
It sparkled just the same.
But I sacrificed you for convention,
though my heart never gave you up.
(You would have done it, too.)
And now I find myself in a dark tunnel,
leading to an unknown place
where weeping gains me nothing
and the trail that I thought would take me to you
leads only to your grave.
Would have. Could have. Should have.
I never claimed to be a saint
and you never needed me to be.
This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2, The Sunday Whirl, and M.A. (fourth in a series).