I’m sorry to
the tree that we carved our names into
the irreversible and permanent damage
that we did to the landscapes
of one another—
the inevitable destruction
all for a passing moment.
Isn’t that just like love?
I’m sorry to
the roads that we traveled,
your affection
bending and turning
as I lost control
around the hairpin curves
of
everything you said
and then
everything you did
and then
everything you couldn’t bring yourself
to realize—
I’m sorry
that I forged my way through
the topography
of your mind,
so it should come as no surprise
that one of us would eventually
crash and burn.
I still think that it should have
been you.
Isn’t that
just like
love?
Sometimes
a moth to the flame,
but even after all this time,
more so like
a lamb to the slaughter.