I loved you.
It is such a pittance to say that now,
a petty nothingness.
I love you.
I said it then. I meant it. I mean it now
when I say it was molten
and seething, and every warm touch
was both balm and hot coals—
The kind you have to walk on,
the kind you put in your mouth,
to prove you mean it,
to make pure the words
I love you.
I love you.
Did I never write you into a poem?
The very heart of my soul.
The very soul of my face.
Did I never close my eyes with you?
Did I never eat that white dust?
I imagine my hands on your face,
But you were too strong,
too much of yourself.
Coals in your hands.
I understand now. I understand.
I loved you.
I loved you.
