She takes my hand,
but this time it is different.
No longer are we searching for holes,
filling the cavities of our souls,
or stiches for these broken muscles within
the ventricles of our hearts.
This time is unlike others.
Instead of slashed wrists, hungry collarbones
or half-eaten fingernails,
I see a woman.
Laughing, we kiss.
just as I have done so many times before.
I assure her I love her,
that estrogen will not change that.
But we are still children in so many ways.
That we do not know what will happen tomorrow.
So, we Pray to the God of loss,
The God of Small things,
for tomorrow to never come,
for the little things.
For today’s bumps and bruises to become our memories,
so that the Hurt cannot enter.
so that the Hurt cannot leave.
But you know, and I know what will happen then,
and that we won’t fight it.
That being alive is the ever-ending wait, counting down ‘til tomorrow.
So I kiss your forehead.
For today; for the hours.
So that you remember this, as
your first-last lover.
And this realisation haunts me.
If he touched her, he couldn’t talk to her, if he loved her, he couldn’t leave, if he spoke, he couldn’t listen, if he fought, he couldn’t win.