Untold Paramour

May I, may I gain grace
for a disbelief grounded in cataclysms?
May I, may I begin to explain
how blind I became
as eyelids opened.

If, if you were gracious enough
to meet me again,
would you remain long enough to let me display
my every justification for our separation?
Blame of fables for their portrayal of you.
Blame of their inability to fill your slippers of crystal.
Blame of resentment’s constant festering
from witnessing your presence
behind every white picket fence,
but my own.

Would you, would you understand
how your sudden ceasing with the trace of my single decade
upon lines disclosing attempts at salvaging the already shattered,
tore into untouched innocence
crimson upon fresh fallen snow,
leaving me dubious that I had ever known you to begin with. 

Seasons elapsed taught me all you were not.
Led like a leashed hound to every place you’d never be found.
Only close enough to smell what was left behind of your rot.
Cautionary tales intoxicating me with:
but what if? 

Yet, in scarce instances of proximity, vacillations overtook. 
Venturing closer and closer to your bed’s edge 
just to slam earth back upon the budding sprout.
can you forgive me for my harrowing hunt, 
just offering you glimpses of wide blue over the shoulder.

I knew our dissolution was mothered by my fears
as much as it was fathered by your absence.
In solitude, I paint what could’ve been by the street lights,
tracing torn letters of admiration and running mascara above me

Yet, I couldn’t help but interrogate:
How long can faith be kept before it is but foolish delusion?
How long does one count the beads before breaking apart the rosary?
How many miles must be journeyed without direction before the cause is lost? 

Now, I can’t help but acknowledge 
the strange humour in every answer appearing
in the instance I denounced their investigation.

I assumed always,
your repparance would unfold with force not unlike detonation.
That you would rear, reflecting red and gold upon every surface near. 
I never expected you to write yourself back into my story,
in a manner so tender. 

Overwhelming, slow, without control,
we reconvene between the steam
of paper cups, longer looks and trembling hands.
I talk to fill space, hoping it’ll distract
from my face washed in awe.

Unprepared till there,
recognizing your breathing between
the gentle phrases, ceaseless patience and lipstick stains.

I see now why they place at your hearth’s stoop
every sin and pride.
How having then losing you
pushes even those of diamond
to their knees in anguish.

So,
forgive my coy nature,
forgive the stammers,
forgive these unblinking stares.
For every bone of mine seems to verge upon shattering.
Quavering in your long-awaited presence.

Twisting the silver glinting,
the claddagh faces me.
Every atom weeps,
as our eyes meet,
with murmurs of
“Finally.”