Dear John: The Villanelle
I love you, but I know I can’t go back
to long white fingers wrapped around my wrists.
If, one by one, my bones begin to crack
the code of star-crossed lovers, fade to black,
then maybe I’ll believe that I exist
to love you. But I know I can’t go back,
and, as you stare, my skull feels like it’s smack-
ing open, letting all my thoughts be twist-
ed one by one. My bones begin to crack-
le like a bus stalled over rail-road tracks;
the mounting whisper in my chest insists
“I love you.” But I know I can’t go back-
ing into concrete bricks of heart-attacks
or smashing head first into bloody fists,
as one by one, my bones begin to crack.
The letters on the doormat run my rack-
et. Broken legs and fingers can’t resist.
I love you. But I know I can’t go back-
wards. One by one, my bones begin to crack.
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