Yes, tis you that have cut me,
my body, the wound, not yours.
It is not my blood that I’m bleeding,
but you. Every sharp inch, each
dull thud of a heartbeat, footsteps
on my threshold. Hold me again,
before you are gone.
O, those shoes, how they weather on.
Our love is a herd of wild horses. How
I wish to ride them all the way into
the ocean. Footsteps stutter to my door
and again away. We all have different
reasons for running.
But those shoes, how they weather on.
This is the learning again how to devour
ourselves. The sky shrinking in
on itself. My heart folding in on itself.
The plot convoluting itself. This is a pattern
you wanted to miss, the inkblot
that looked too much like home, you
are not crazy, I whispered. But there is
no shame if you are, no shame in having a
mind too open to know how to close.
And those shoes, how they weather on.
The blame sits unpicked, rotting fruit
on stunted trees, raining down with
the firm shake of your apology. “You
did not mean to,” a gentle hose, I
understand now. I feel, too, how
the ceiling can melt away, the sky can be
too blue some days. Not every cage is
to keep someone in; not every good day
is a good day for you.
But your shoes too, can weather on.