Yes, and

I love you and I love

who you imagined me to be;

the tower strong enough to be betrayed,

to be toppled and push on,

to forget and to be free,

not to be scarred and not to be afraid.
 

 

I love you and the way

you trusted me to take in stride

(I, too naive to gamble with your trust)

a frivolity, a jest,

nothing to shatter fragile pride,

nothing to fester, accumulate disgust.

 

I love your gracious heart;

you, who were strong enough to kiss

a butt that only knew to patronize.

Who never seemed to wish her ill

though what she left you with was this:

(I wouldn't know; I'd crumpled from the lies

 

and could not bring myself

to visit any truthful plot

before time and pixels devoured.

I, who love to look back;

except on you, when I could not

contemplate reloading; a mouse that cowered.)

 

You love the sagas and

you wanted me to share

that love: endurance, brilliance, sacrifice.

You read my face too well;

you knew I'd grow to care,

to rue another's cost for playing nice.

 

I love you and I know

that you would never speak to judge

me even if I crawled to you in tears.

But someone strong like you

would surely never hold a grudge

like the burnt shards I've carried all these years.

 

What could you do but laugh

in silence, in your heart

if I told you sometimes that pain burns fresh?

Or worse--you'd see my weakness

and then regret your part

as if you'd known what fire does to flesh.

 

I cannot even say

"If I could do it all again

To play with fire is not something I'd do."

I wish it was that easy.

I regret so much. But then,

I cannot regret meeting, loving, you.