Elle Se Déverse

Sometimes I hear a thing,
throw myself in a hole,
clap hands over ears
and sing

loud enough

to fill the Dom where I first fell in love.

And when that isn't enough,
I lie to beautiful women.

I tell them three years
when the timeline was eighteen months

because

I am so sure
I am so goddamn sure
I can change it.

I would be lying again
if I said I didn't miss you

and still be lying if I said
it wasn't easier.

I would be lying if I said
he isn't better to you, for you,
than I ever would have been.

He won't judge you,
or begrudge you,
I would have because

I am still wondering
how you can look at anyone but me.

I am so glad you will never kiss me like that again.
The last kiss should always be the moon
pulling the tide from the earth.

But I would be lying still if I said
I won't be the midnight secret you share with your daughter
when she is questioning her blossoming sexuality,

or the tear on your cheek
when you finally let fall for another woman

or secreted away in long-ago letters
where your favorite letter is "L"
and you can smell me in the Moroccan wind.

So live and love, and go knowing
I only ever lied about one thing,
because I couldn't bear it to be true.

Maybe when I reach heaven
I won't write your name
in clouds across the sky
but when I reach the ground
I'll immortalize your visage
in something as tangible as love.