I remember his fear,
as he found my fingertips in the night,
as if they were his only anchor to the real world.
How he wept into my hair,
confessing to the night,
that he was afraid to fall in love with me,
in case he lost himself.
I thought I might tell him,
that losing yourself to love,
is surprisingly liberating,
but I knew,
his mind was made up,
and that I would lose him,
when the sun rose.
He sent me roses,
a few weeks later,
telling me I was still on his mind,
but that if I didn’t mind,
he’d like me to leave.
The choice was not mine to make,
but I smiled,
and thought very loudly about leaving,
just to be polite,
or to reassure him,
that sometimes your heart can be controlled.
I used to visit him,
in the prison he promised he’d never build for himself,
sending him nail files and escape plans,
that he never opened,
receiving nudes and the occasional teary rant in return.
He seems angry,
because I found a way to live,
that I’m not spending my days,
drawn to him,
knocking on windows,
like I’m lost and in love on the moors.
I can’t say I never cried,
but I can’t say I stayed either,
but is it a crime,
that you are too sweet to stay on the shelf,
until the children grow up?
I’ve never fallen in love,
it always takes me by surprise,
but it’s so strong when it happens,
I think I might sympathise with those it frightens,
but as they beckon me backward,
from our entanglement,
on their arms,
and the eyes of a mad man,
that say “I haven’t slept in days”,
I start to wonder,
if I ever really loved them at all,
or if I just obsess over converting “considering” into “I would die for you”.
I don’t know if I’ve ever been in love,
or if I just liked feeling like someone could love me,
if I am a good enough girl,
and became so consumed by the thought,
that I thought “This is it!”
so I wait,
and I hope,
that I’ll figure it out,
or that something will find me,
and I can be lost again.