Neal

your poison tastes so much like mine.

i’m still pulling stubborn weeds from the dirt around my heart.

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.

i saved so many blank pages for you.

love is not what we thought.

all of our teachers were wrong.