3A different kind of poem, I guess.
I found you passed out in the kitchen last night.
I don't think you remember but you were murmuring
his name as I carried you upstairs, and when
you kissed me messier than ever, you begged me not
to hurt you. You'd broken a wineglass,
and emptied all our best wine. I cut my hand on one of the shards.
Sometimes I think you think I'm him, and I
don't know what to say except that we killed him
years ago. And he's six feet under but you're still
slouched at the table, dangling a fluted glass from your
hand, and crying because you can't remember
whether you're in my house or his. I don't know
how to help you. When you kiss me like that,
it's to appease him, and I don't want to hurt you by
accepting it.
I have written so much about you,
I'm so deep in love. But if you ever read this,
I want you to know that if he's not dead enough,
then you can kill me. I'm not strong enough
to hold someone like you. If this love hurts, I'll leave,
I won't come back, I'll run and run and run and
you'll never have to see him again. I don't want you
as much as I need you to be okay.