I'm Sorry

You once asked me to dream in snow here,

so I did,

assuming that it would melt away

with the gravel and the slush,

but it didn’t.

Its permanence etched onto my bones

as I carried it around with me

and every time I laughed,

a bit of your song flew out of me

into your universe.

And it was funny that

when I stood in front of you,

wild hair and heart unsure,

that when I touched my tongue to yours

you didn’t realise that it was your words

I was giving back to you,

and as we went our separate ways,

you with your new shoes,

me, drunk,

I realised that I now had tattoos

I had no idea how to euthanize.

I’m sorry your mother died the way she did.

I’m sorry she died at all, but I didn’t know her.

If it makes you feel better,

I once loved a boy who told me about his father.

He has long since found someone else to talk about

fathers,

families,

fornication,

fiction,

and she’s beautiful with white skin and coloured eyes,

a pretty voice and the legs of an antelope.

I smiled at his happiness,

as I cried for your mother,

and for my own,

wishing that life was easier on those who were kind,

but that would be unfair.

I didn’t go to Boston on the day he said I would,

instead I lost myself in the arms of a man

who loved other men.