“Rupture: I Am the One Who Mourns”

I lose sleep thinking of you,
searching for words strong enough to endure,
writing verses meant to awaken your soul
beautiful enough to bring you back.

I studied the art of love and loving,
searched for the most luminous poems ever written,
hoping to perfect my craft,
hoping, still, to win you back.

All this
for a single smile from you,
even if it must travel through the wind.
All this
so you might think of me again,
so you might see me again.

I borrowed words from other poets
so memory would return your gaze to me.
I wore their lines as my own,
as if my imagination had deserted me
as if love itself had driven me wild.

On Monday, I sent you my first borrowed
breath:
“I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment,”
so you might dream of us.
I am still in love with you.

The next day, I leaned on Frost
and whispered:
“Love at the lips was touch as sweet as I could bear,”
so you would know,
quietly, seriously
that I am still in love with you.

I know our love moves slowly,
but when it rests, it rests for a long time.
Our silence became poetry,
because our hearts once spoke
to one another in secret.

Yet your disregard for my heartache,
the pain you caused,
taught me the frailty of your love—
that your passion for me
was never strong enough

to rekindle desire.

Your ignorance of my devotion,
of my silent prayers to the Divine,
of my daily tears and whispered laments,
led me to understand
that you never learned
how to love me
with care, with reverence, with respect.

And finally, your silence
made one truth unmistakable:
I am the only one mourning
the departure of a love
that was once beautiful,
once eternal,
the rupture of a bond
I believed was unbreakable.
I am the only one mourning.