A delicate architecture.
And you and your sword and your false-soft heart-start.
I have loved. I have lied.
The only betrayal after ten years in mourning was the bag that I packed. My eyes dry, forgetting their part of the bargain, pupils dilated in the quietest, rainiest, earliest winter.
You and I have won no beauty contests.
Your second face was late to the party. Those pink balloons have popped, or floated out to sea to kill some dolphin--smarter than us--or strangle an ancient turtle.
How do we gasp in the sea?
I asked you this once, how do fish catch their breath? You paused and said, "Like crying in the shower."
The poetry of you was always unintentional.
A misplaced tear from somewhere else.