I guess you could say I was confused
when you said you didn’t love me
Because you always told me that when you kissed my lips
you could taste the next 70 years of your life.
Because when we made love we did it with smiles on our faces
and love in our hearts;
and when you scratched my back
you etched your future into every muscle and every tendon
making me feel as if I was some sort
of a permanent calendar
(But calendars can only last a year).
Because you said eternity had never tasted so sweet
as you drew it from my breath
and kissed the sunshine that leaked from my skin.
Because I promised you that I would never need
rain-soaked nights in Paris,
or money or a house on some far away island
because your heart was the only home
I could ever need.
And because you always said you would treat me like
one of your tragic stars
with their pagan hearts full of morning
and how you would always look up at me in wonder
“What a fall, but what a light.
What impossible light.”