“I fell in love with your words,” he said.

He loved the word necklaces I hung

on his chest

and being the subject

I defined, described

and delighted in.

 

“I loved your words—not you,”

he later said, at the end,

to cut me, as if I would differentiate the two.

 

“Stop writing about me,”

he said, two years later,

as if it was up to him

what I took to poetry, my soul or from the relationship.

 

“Stop writing about me,”

he said and I couldn’t respond. I write about everything and everyone.

If my feelings bend in his direction they will show up

in cursive, eye lashes, dreams and stars.

 

I cannot promise to be silent

or claim to know what of him is in me now

or to trim the parts of my heart where he once lived.

He’s in every crease line, cracked smile opening and cells in my marrow.

He’s in the drops of every tear as is everyone I’ve ever loved.

 

Love is not an outfit I can climb in or out of.

Love is blood, hair and outlook. Love is skin.

Love makes a sacred pool we marinate in for eternity.

I will not apologize for the loves or words I choose.

 

“Stop writing about me,” no one ever said in love.

I love love. Love good, gone bad and even over is holy.

I keep all love and words together in me.

I will not be silent for anyone especially about love.

This is my poem and my promise.

 

Author: Cissy White

Editor: Caroline Beaton

Photo: Flickr