It comes like the familiarity of razor blades to skin:
he is a poem you crafted in your dreams.
You really date a man like your father
and let him salt those old wounds
so they will never really close.
And maybe you could have called it love,
but sometimes, you grieve things you will never
know
or hold
or understand.
And sometimes it isn’t a loss to let go
of a drunken ego war
and that feeling of a man making you out to be crazy,
for the empathy, his intellect lacks.
In the thick of the healing,
you find the most betrayal comes from your own heart—
jumping into someone’s arms
who was always a stranger.