I will tell her it was never wrongly me,
that I was the parallel straight to her imperfect scribble.
I might whisper that to her when her fireplace runs quiet,
when love’s logs are still the branches on the trees I’ll never cut.
And if she thinks she wrung me dry,
I will tell her that I kept the best of me in reserve;
these untapped wells of a man who has found another girl
to pump the generous oils from his bones;
a girl who drank him in and took his clothes off in the dark
until she found the places of his skin that she wanted to breathe life into…