Butterfly Hunting
I’m not sorry for the love I did not get from you
or for waiting you out like something terminal;
bulging recklessly from my bones
because I wanted to stay.
I wanted you to dry me out
like lavender, hang me on your wall
like some winged creature that moved too fast to see
if not crucified, if not frozen.
I’m not sorry for loving you still, watching it shift
all we are, a glacier cascading in the sullen sun. I do not need
three cold walls keeping you out or trapping
you in - life is short and I’m not sorry
that God dealt us burning tarot
because some futures are only found in ashes.
And you dry me out again. Sucking melancholy
like seeds of a passion fruit. I know you can handle bitter,
I know some part of you loves it - your grandma dumping sugar
in the gutter lines of something sour, but there is no sugar now
only word after word. After all, I still look over at you
in crowded backyards just to make sure your happy
to make sure your fingers aren’t tearing at calloused palms
to make sure your flesh is loose and your eyes are not there
still looking for me to save you.