You are trying to tell me something.

I follow the clues you leave like breadcrumbs
in my thirsty dreams. I learn where
your path has led
but not why
and know
it matters not to you
that it matters to me.

In real life you toss juicy steaks to try and throw
me off the scent of everything about you
and I retreat and hide, chased
by steely knives in eyes
like pools of hope
from which once I
drew breath and life.

You are trying to tell me something.
I am trying to tell you something.

I don't want to know how it ends, years after it ended
or was declared never to have existed, but I am
bound to your heart, sliced by the blade
that has left me unable
to believe in anything,
to achieve or earn a living,
to conceive of a future.

I see pictures of you looking like Grandpa Munster
and I have never loved you more deeply
or been wounded more fatally
or been more willing
to learn to forgive,
to speak truth in love,
to find your heart again.

I am trying to tell you something.