I’ve never walked into morning
expecting a star lit sky.
Just like I never let you hold me,
let you wrap your thin butter colored thighs
around the thick milk of mine,
thinking you would ever let me go.

I should have known
by the way you drove a car—
white knuckles and hesitation
—that one day you would be relieved 
to never experience
a love like mine
again.

I put the windows down in my car that afternoon—
after I told you I was choosing the place I loved
over the pulsing neon of your
flickering heart
—the wind was warm and soft,
but just strong enough
to tear the baby-thin roots of you
right out of my heart.

I have seen bigger and stronger
than you
so I don’t understand
how a love that looked so small,
could leave a hole 
as wide and deep
and empty
as yours.