The damning

If I can’t love in full, I can’t love at all.

As then my love dies like echoing footfalls.

But you, you let it die. Conscientiously.

I can’t do half-loves found on rebated shelves. 

Nor can I do small sex like some do small talk.

But you, stifled it, with a pillow, slowly.

Feigning ignorance isn’t my strongest suit.

But you, you asked me. I tried. I did. I failed.

So you took my love, crumpled it, and burnt it.

I stared at you while the flames consumed it all.

Not with rage, nor with hate, nor with disbelief.

I didn’t stare with love, or disappointment.

I watched you as I have watched so many leave:

bruised, battered, confused, happy and unhappy

to leave yet another soul scorched up, writhing.

Your tone and words more chilling than the blizzard

always, as if gloating, as if satisfied.

Ashen prize in a smouldering, ashen land.

You brought many, down in your personal hell,

so that love looked worthy and achievable.

Thus I looked, found my ashes, took them, and left.

Not that you faked your feelings and sentiments:

there simply was no room for love among them,

and my own was too cumbersome to carry.

There is no vow to never do it again:

there will be other people falling with you;

there will be other times when I give my love.

But one thing more certain than the next sunrise

is that your soul dims as your fire brightens

is that my love whole always shall be given.