She loved only him

And only him forever

But her forever ended in two weeks

While his stretched on... forever

She loved only him

She said, wrapped in white

Pale against hospital sheets

Her smile a little too tight

She loved only him

She whispered, real soft

Quiet and cold, as her

Last breath left with a cough

She loved only him

He could hear her say

As her hand became limp

And she was carted away

Never again

Would he hear her say

She loved only him...

Not since her dying day

If only she told him she loved him

Before it was too late

Before he...

Before...

Why she had waited

She wished she knew

What was she to do now

He was...

He...

It was too late

She would never have the chance

To tell him that she loved him

She would never have the chance

To tell him anything

Ever again

If she only told him she loved him

whispering words into his uncertain

dreams at night

faith alone, waking the sleeping rainbows

moving his every wish toward the sundrops

If waiting forever was an unheard of burden

his candle would be lit in the dancing sky of

her ballad already

If unsaid words hadn’t gottten in the way of

time’s art work, what would he have done with

the painting of her? What would she have done

with her life with him? If only she had said the

words.

she only told him she loved him.

maybe that was the problem.

those three words held as much weight

as the air she used to say them.

what catastrophic event did she miss?

when did her smiles become strained?

when did every 'i love you'

become just another chain?

whatever the case,

this was not a battle she could win.

the wound had already healed.

she was inexorably changed.

she knew that in war, there were

no winners. only the remains of

society that we once named civil,

left to count the bodies of victims.

love was not war, it shouldn't

have gotten this far. she resolved

to tell him the truth, whatever

truth she could comprehend.

but a look at him smiling,

his hand in hers, swinging.

she thought of him crying,

and felt another chain in the loop.

Mid-80s are nothing to sneeze at,

particularly when the teacher is

a grim never-was with a red pen

where his prick ought to be,

and particularly when

she spends evenings watching cousins

(2 and 6 and 7) so her aunt

can pick up a double shift or shot

and she types that essay at midnight

between the toddler’s crying jags.

And she might have done it

despite everything,

might have found more,

more than a rusting doublewide,

more than CPS calls,

more than eleventh grade,

more than part time at Dollar General

and cigarette breaks behind dumpsters

and YouTube on cracked screens and

bounced checks and Slim Jim dinners and

Milwaukee’s Best vacations and

screaming and shouting and crying and

fear and hunger and sadness and

bruises and wanting and wanting

and despite

dropout boyfriend who said no condom

it’s OK he’d pull out

she might yet have found more

only she told him she loved him.

He told her he wasn’t a him.

Surprised by this Only a moment.

She asked could she Only love her?

Only a heartbeat later she said certainly!

How Only last night she dreamed of such a thing.

They spent their Only’s wisely together

She told him she loved only him,

but discovered it wasn’t enough.

She said she would always remember;

he agreed he would never forget.

He told her he only loved her,

and love just wasn’t enough.

She knew her feelings would never leave her,

and his had already left.

She only told him she loved him

When her legs were wrapped round his naked body

Wet with sweat

Above her.

It wasn't enough.

Of course,

He didn't mind being used for sex.

But it wasn't enough

And

Saying "I love you"

Only during sex

Doesn't make it love

Because she is saying "I love you"

To the sex.

Not to him.

She shuffled slowly, dragging her IV around like a broken tail. I watched her longingly. I wished I could just shove her aside and take the tap out and have it once again. Have her once again. She noticed and looked at me stoically. My ears were becoming hot with anger. She was such a tease. I am Jack’s hand, itching to punch her right in the stomach. she finally passed my doorway and I looked at the ceiling. The remnants of my latest “tantrum” as the nurses loved to call it were painted on my ceiling. Browning stains and deep slash marks ran down the ceiling towards my head like daggers.

I was close. The doctors even said so, scratching their heads as they stood over my hospital bed recounting how they’d barely saved my life like they wanted a damn medal or something. I didn’t ask to be saved. We all knew that if they had been off already when I tried to get back to her, I would be with her. The light from my dirty window turned the stains maroon and I could hear the scraping, sticking wheels of her IV again as she walked past, giving me that dead stare. She was such a whore. I made sure she could see my ring. The thought of another superior woman always made her little ego shrink back into her loose fitting night gown.

My ring was the last thing I had to remember her by. That cheeky dimpled smile, those beautiful green eyes, those perfect golden-brown curls... it’s all gone. Now all I had left was this cold metal weight that I couldn’t get rid of. I saw her shuffling past again and reached fo rmy ring. My arm struggled against the handcuffs they placed on me, pressing painfully against my blood-soaked bandages. I winced, illiciting a small smirk from her a she wandered past.

I glared at the ceiling, trying not to say all of the angry words I was thinking. They’d only see me lashing out. Not her sauntering past my room, mouthing that she loved me. Not how she tortured me for her whole exercise time while they encouraged her. They didn’t hear those dreadful wheels or that look in her eyes when she hazed at me as she walked. It drove me crazy. Before her jaw was wired shut, we had group together. She had been clingy before but hearing that I was a widower only attracted her closer. Our chairs would touch during group and I could’ve sworn she always wrote her writes about her “imaginary boyfriend” about me.

I looked at my door to see her standing in my doorway, holding her IV in her hand. My eyes widened as she came closer, looking at me with her intense black eyes. She came to the foot of my bed, then to my bedside, staring me in the eye. She grabbed my hand and pressed it to her body. I could feel my body reacting and tried to shift to hide my shame. I was unsuccessful, which got another smirk out of her. She took the IV and stabbed it into my hand. I was going to scream but the surge of morphine swelled in my veins. A stupid smile filled my face as my body warmed. She watched me longingly. I could hear her murmur something as she groped my leg. The euphoria made it hard for me to pull away. She pressed her mouth against my forehad and then my lips before slinking back out.

I watched the door long after she was gone. This changed nothing. I would still flash her my-- I held my hand up and looked at it for a long time. Something was wrong. the IV was in place and I still had all five finger but something was off. I stared until the sun had moved from my ceiling to my fingers before i realized my ring finger no longer gleamed. I wanted to sit up and scream for her but I as immobilized by the needle in my hand. My other hand was no use, and my whole body was too limp to care.

She took my ring. She took my ring. I decided then that I was going to kill that bitch. She took my ring and replaced it with something better.

She only told him she loved him, in her mind and heart. "I love you", such tender words that she could not bring herself to say them aloud. She repeated them in her head, knowing the uproar it would cause if she ever uttered them out loud. But he knew- he knew from the shy smiles, her fierce protectiveness. And he loved her too. Neither of them needed to actually say it.