I didn’t want to love you this way,
I didn’t want your name to be
a dull knife in my side,
I didn’t want to be ripped apart
slowly, like this.
But her lips fit perfectly
against the parts of your skin
that you would never let me touch,
And I’m not mad at either of you.
I hope when you look at her
you see every poem I ever wrote you,
printed across her face.
I hope you understand them now.
I’m sorry my pencils still know your name.
I’m sorry I was only a flickering subway light
when you asked for the sun.
(What are your ghosts like?)
(They are on the insides of the lids of my eyes.)
(This is also where my ghosts reside.)
(You have ghosts?)
(Of course I have ghosts.)
(But you are a child.)
(I am not a child.)
(But you have not known love.)
(These are my ghosts, the spaces amid love.)