Her Name Is Adelaine

They will say it was madness.
But madness, like love, begins with a look.

I remember hers.

Not for the color - though it was soft, like dusk pressed into iris -
but for the way it asked questions without speaking.
She walked into my life as if she'd always belonged there.
Not loud. Not bold. Just inevitable.

I taught poetry. She became it.

There are stories that begin gently.
Ours began with silence -
and ended with it, too.

They will say she was too young.
Too sweet. Too good.
They'll whisper my name like a warning,
spit it out between half-facts and pity,
try to piece together the moment the line blurred.
They'll fail.

Because the truth is slippery.
And the heart -
God, the heart is a violent thing.

If I could go back, maybe I would do it differently.
But some love deserves to ruin you.

And some names, when spoken aloud, taste like blood.