He stands there,
expectant,
alternately
demanding and
baby-bird,
infuriated and
frightened,
and he looks to me for answers
about the heart of his
that he gave me
for safekeeping,
but I have none
to give him,
as I set it aside
some time ago,
when I found it grown hard to me,
heavy to carry.
He is heavy now, too,
with unshed tears
and a broken set of hopes,
the kind that will never be
shining again,
but will be cobbled together
and refashioned
in order to look
as though they belong together.
He stands there,
and he is obstinate
in his declarations of love,
as though they mean
something,
as though they ever could,
when we both know
his heart was not yet
his own to give,
nor should I have been entrusted
to carry it,
even if it were.
We Both Know
