he'd never come--
she knew this (and him)
better than she knew herself
he had much to say
but his words were now
paper airplanes and fallen leaves
on windy autumn days
she told herself that was one of many reasons
to stop loving him at last
but it never made sense during the day when the sun rose
or at night when the curtains were pulled tight on the moon
or when she really thought about it for more than an instant
during walks hand in hand with yesterday's joys
oh, it didn't matter, after all, she'd tell herself--
he never truly loved her anyway
but rather as some idea or images reflected
on freezing cold winter nights
in downstairs rooms
chasing passions as they ran naked
against darkened walls
but it was all shifting sands
wiping away the words she wrote
because it did exist, once--
and because she loved him with a depth
she knew she'd never truly understand
in one lifetime
and she remembered every inch of him
as if nothing else mattered--
the dark against the pale
the way his hands held things-- hard things
and swallowed them with their large roughness
and her--
how he carried her there
in the palm of his open hand
looking up into the very soul of his eyes
loving, just once,
completely
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