The Breakup

I once told him that icicles are magical 
and he left them to grow on the eves of his house 
so I could stare in wonder at them.
They were there all winter 
and grew as much as I was growing to care for him.
Love isn't always slowly melting.
Sometimes it's black and blue where it hurts the most.

Three years ago 
I said that I never wanted to write another breakup poem again,
yet here I am.
I loved him still on our last date at the shooting range
where I hit 23 targets in a row, 
and missed 40,
but he still looked on like I was an action movie heroine.

Little did I know that the poems were there all along 
but in a language I did not yet know how to speak.
But I know now it doesn't matter how well I say Grace
if I am sitting at a table 
where I am offered nothing that feeds my soul.
If I knew this wasn't a fairy tale meant for me
I would have smashed my glass slippers
 and created a stained glass window instead.

In silence, it's impossible to tell what the other person 
is thinking without looking them in the eyes
and him,
he was as still as a lake morning at 5 a.m. in June.
He asked if we could still be friends.
I explained how in no uncertain terms 
that a honeybee does not dream of kissing 
the wet, sweet lips of a flower
and then settles for its leaves.

I can remember arriving at his home 
and walking in to the scent of fresh baked brownies
on the worst day ever.
Holding hands on the couch.
I could see the rose petals falling from his fingertips
from the doorway to the bedroom like breadcrumbs,
or drops of blood in a crime scene.

I can't enjoy them now without starving for his laughter.
I'm hungry for his touch
yet my mouth tastes like the slow dissolve 
of the the last 'I love you' 
that refused to leave our mouths.

I can wait for him to:
finish never ending home renovations,
take care of his health, 
focus on his promotion,
heal.

I can't wait for him to:
Grow up.
Grow a pair.
Decide that I am worth having in his life.

I don't need any more friends.