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It hurts to love because you let him
s
 l
i  
p
inside your skin.
Each passing day brings tendon meeting tendon
elbows interlocking
memories kiss and join.
It hurts to love because two separate, singular pains will bloom
splashing color, licking heartache
lapping the sting.  
It hurts to love because eventually you’ll part.
It is never slowly, taking time to unwind, to release your grip to fade into a scar.
It is quick, skin ripping, new memories hanging in tatters blowing against your heart.
Your body becomes an empty house, a never-ending lease broken years too soon, but he left it furnished.
He left his shoes by the bed,
his cereal bowl in the sink,
his cologne cloud in the bathroom hallway.
He also took the key and when he left,
he packed the front door and the windows looking out.
So you lie there or you wander aimlessly, finding more things he left behind.
In the pantry there’s the day you snuck into a movie theater and kissed in the back row.
In the guest bedroom you’re greeted with the warm nakedness under the sheets,
where you traced fingertip constellations on his belly.
The bathroom whispers about the day petals crept from its doorway and into the bedroom, a surprise.
But one day while you’re passing your hand along the endless walls, your fingertip will catch.
You’ll spy a piece of raised wood, a tiny knob.
You’ll pry it open, nails breaking, oak splintering.
You’ll be blinded by sunlight. You’ll crawl out, stand alone, feeling air warm your face.
And then you’ll brush the dirt off of your knees and you’ll take those first new steps alone.
It hurts to love because
it’s supposed to.