Rice

In the garden I light my body up, inhale you sat on logs  
where wood smoke chokes the lung of my confessions -  
and you're here, and you know, don't you?
 
The weight comes on as hail stones on a mostly sunny day,  
bruises all the edges that quickly fall away, turn to puddles -  
and you're here, and you know, don't you?  
 
What if you came to stay, what if you laid on the lawn with your cases,  
what if we spoke and if we ran far from here?  
 
What would my life be, how would I endure a version  
of me that could do that so damn quickly to the others?  
 
What would you say to warm me  
when my self loathing froze me as she has so done many times before this?  
 
How would we breathe, how would it seem?  
 

 
Seems to me we'd waste ourselves, loving knowing loving  
is never quite enough to survive your person,  
 
truth is,  
see, survival comes in loving only
yourself - or at least  
the version that you share with someone else
 
and I never loved her,  
 
not even once  
 
when she was with you.