"I'll risk it."
I read your words as if they are
the climax of someone else's tragedy
I know your words, I have memorized
their careful form and feelings and this,
this is a forgery of a hypocrite
of someone desperate, reckless
You could not have committed such
a crime against our common language,
the language we so precisely scripted
And in an instant, I realized you only
loved me like someone loves winter
before it begins, like someone loves
rain but shuts their eyes at the sight
of lightning, like the restless artist
who leaves every painting half-finished
I know this is how you love me, dear,
because when a man whispers
to another woman he'll risk it,
the winters, the rain, the paintings,
he damned well better mean it.
