Yesterday I lied and said I can't write about him.
His strong fingers still holding onto fragile memories.
I want to protect him, keep him from the hurt that can surface
when words pour over an open wound.
So I lied again and told him that all I want to do is write about how I'm crossing my delicate fingers,
waiting for memories to let go
and for me to slip in.
And I lied again. And again after that.
And then it happened
That version of him disappeared. And all that's left is truth.
Sitting together, as words fall on wounds that will take forever to heal, if at all.
We stare at them, and each other.
And let us happen.
And learn that harmony isn't found in the letting go of our long-lived memories,
instead it's found somewhere in the letting go of the fight.
Love needs room to grow, and there's no room left
in a space filled with war.