dear lani
I read the poems you wrote
about my lover.
I feel uncomplicated
and small.
I see how you drew him
hunched over a cello;
naked bones, those
unforgivably thin shoulders.
his hair was longer
when you knew him;
his wistful darkened eyes
the same.
I see how you saw him,
really saw him,
and stenciled him
into your art;
he must have loved that.
You gave him what he wanted.
It’s what he will always want, I think,
and so I left him.
he wants to be a romantic,
dark and jaded part
of many women’s stories,
and I don’t like that
and so I left.
but lani, I love him.
and if he feels lonely
I hope he reads your words
about his skin, and his brokenness,
and if he feels unseen
I hope he sees how
you drew him, with painful love,
into immortality.
thank you, lani.
I can leave, for he was
given what he needs;
and not, thank god, by me.