Word Vomit

It was forgiveness

and grace

and patience.

It would be calm and it would be calming.

It would be unmistakable.

Love was a wrecking ball with brown eyes. Honey.

Metallic kisses.

Defensive.

And antagonistic.

It was tongune-in-cheek and bygones of a more innocent us.

It held your hand as they found clinical words for your soul leaving your body.

It would always be faulty.

An engine rattle.

An unkind truth that clung to our aging skeletons

and outgrew the versions of us we tried to kill.

A sadness that slept in your bones and fed off its marrow.

That would persist

and resist

and never boast.

Love was every promise you hoped they would learn to keep.

Love was never meant to save a life.

Or be memorialized in the fairy tales you read to children.

It was smoke.

And souls that mirror.

It would kill you if you let it.

It would slip away and be found again

and again

and again, but.

But.

But.