forget the other stories you hear; this one is mine, and in mine
i am not left behind. i am the one walking away and i never bother looking back.
there is no desperate sadness or pleas to stay--
just the quiet street stuck underwater.
i walk away and think not of what i leave behind, but the road that runs never-ending in front of me.
these aren't love letters. not for us, in any case.
i send post cards without a return address and skip town the next day.
still, you manage to send your letters with pressed flowers; the ink feels more real than you ever did and i wonder
did we exist to each other?
or did we simply exist besides each other?
i collect your letters and never read through them twice;
when it piles up on the motel table, i hit the road the next day leaving the burned paper behind me.
believe it or not, i am not the villain.
yes, i left,
but you abandoned me long before in search of your holy revelation.
the poison fortune tellers warn us about was always each other
and now that there are miles between us
my flesh has stopped rotting away under my skin;
but this doesn't make you the villain either.
there are no monsters or heroes or great quest in our story.
there is only you and me: the empty bodied and the living statue--
unfeeling, unfaltering and never human enough to earn sympathy.
one day i'll reach the edge of the world and throw aside every trace you left on me;
one day you'll find sanctuary and fall to your knees in relief
and our story will end as it began: