we should have waited for the spring.
we should have waited for the high tide
of our past tragedies
to be a faint watermark against
these weathered breakers.
my cracked skin would have been softer to the touch.
my words might have been softer too.
your golden glow from the other coast
would have returned;
you could have felt at home again. instead
cold mornings greeted you
along with this city, shrouded
winter can be such a brittle proprietor.
yes, we should have waited for the spring,
should have let it whisper our unspoken history.
remember that conversation
on 10th street? the last of the autumn air
clawed at our lips.
we wandered between construction
scaffolding, holding hands
and listened to the sounds of a city half asleep.
the silence was already there,
inside us, building a home.
we should have just waited for the spring,
for my mother to visit again.
i knew she was never convinced,
something about the way she asked her questions.
normally warm and round, here
the corners of her mouth
betrayed her suspicion.
she must have known we were stars about to collapse.
and yet you’re still my constellation,
still etched in memory. you’re a pattern
i point to in the night sky,
this moment in time that changed my trajectory.
its easier to see my mistakes now, but this
isn’t an apology
i felt cornered by your demands for reverence. an autonomy
i wasn’t ready to give up yet.
i knew you were vulnerable in a way i couldn’t be
but you told me that you’d forgive him
if only he flew to new york
with a wedding ring.
maybe that’s all you ever needed:
romance is myth-making. it’s the beginning
and end of all perspective.
a cycle of circumstance and chemistry.
sure, we could have waited for the spring,
for our new love to bud beneath a dewy dawn
but all seasons end.
and even the treasured cherry blossoms
must meet their doom
in order to bloom again