dear lani

I read the poems you wrote

about my lover.

I feel uncomplicated

and small.

I see how you drew him

hunched over a cello;

naked bones, those

unforgivably thin shoulders.

his hair was longer

when you knew him;

his wistful darkened eyes

the same.

I see how you saw him,

really saw him,

and stenciled him

into your art;

he must have loved that.

You gave him what he wanted.

It’s what he will always want, I think,

and so I left him.

he wants to be a romantic,

dark and jaded part

of many women’s stories,

and I don’t like that

and so I left.

but lani, I love him.

and if he feels lonely

I hope he reads your words

about his skin, and his brokenness,

and if he feels unseen

I hope he sees how

you drew him, with painful love,

into immortality.

thank you, lani.

I can leave, for he was

given what he needs;

and not, thank god, by me.