like the way the tears filled your eyes
on that chilly chicago morning
when i passed through the turnstile
at kedzie-homan
on the way to catch my plane
or the way our hands never left one another’s
for eight days, as you danced me around the city;
drowning in love, even then, as your plotted
your betrayal.
i choose to stay with those eyes and
the warmth of your hand,
not the months of angry phone calls
and accusatory, torturous abuse
or the way that you said i love you
and maybe meant it
all those times
before the last time.