I remember you walking through the door.
You were a mess, all tangles and grime and tears.
And your pretty little shoes, they had gotten so dirty out in the rain and mud.
I wished I could make them clean again, but there was no hope.
You just sat on the floor and cried.
I didn't know what to do.
So I didn't do anything.
Eventually you stood up, smiled at me,
assured me that everything was ok.
I knew it wasn't.
And the slam of your car door was a promise
that you wouldn't be coming back.
In the rain your taillights sparkled like rubies.
They were so beautiful that I couldn't watch them disappear.
I just closed my eyes and whispered,
"Sorry."
I wish that it had all ended there;
that I had left it at an unheard apology.
But humans have a sick desire to fix,
even if what they're fixing is beyond repair.
So I called you over and over,
torturing you,
making sure my name bounced perpetually
off the walls of your skull.
I kept pushing, and it was the flowers that finally broke you:
bouquets of petunias and lilies and irises
that I nestled among the planters on your doorstep.
You took me back.
And now I'm laying in bed with you,
watching your chest flutter and fall as you dream.
I'm waiting for the sun to rise
so I can tell you that you never should have given in.
In that morning light I'll kiss you
and look at my feet as I explain that I betrayed you again.
My taillights will shine like rubies as I drive away.
But I know that you won't close your eyes
until they disappear.
