Cobblestones

Yes, tis you that have cut me, my body, the wound, not yours. It is not my blood that I’m bleeding, but you. Every sharp inch, each dull thud of a heartbeat, footsteps on my threshold. Hold me again, before you are gone. O, those shoes, how they weather on. Our love is a herd of wild horses. How I wish to ride them all the way into the ocean. Footsteps stutter to my door and again away. We all have different reasons for running. But those shoes, how they weather on. This is the learning again how to devour ourselves. The sky shrinking in on itself. My heart folding in on itself. The plot convoluting itself. This is a pattern you wanted to miss, the inkblot that looked too much like home, you are not crazy, I whispered. But there is no shame if you are, no shame in having a mind too open to know how to close. And those shoes, how they weather on. The blame sits unpicked, rotting fruit on stunted trees, raining down with the firm shake of your apology. “You did not mean to,” a gentle hose, I understand now. I feel, too, how the ceiling can melt away, the sky can be too blue some days. Not every cage is to keep someone in; not every good day is a good day for you. But your shoes too, can weather on.