but i keep telling you i’m not well,
and you keep telling me oh well,
it’s hell being unwell,
ain’t it?
you kept clutching my hand too tight
when we were parked over the lookout point
and you kept looking me up and down,
as if you were scared i’d just hurl myself out
into the lover’s abyss.
“promise me you’re okay,”
you said with a shiver,
“i’m okay,”
i said, and i squeezed your hand three times,
and for a moment, there was peace.
then a moment passed, and that stare came back,
you saw it, and you squeezed your eyes shut,
hoping that when they opened again a few moments later,
they wouldn’t see me gazing off into the stars,
trying to transfix myself away from the chill of another
night of lying to ourselves.
we creaked the faux leather seats back sometime later,
you gently pushing me out of my trance and into your arms,
and we turned on the heat and some folksy shit on the radio,
but nothing was spoken,
nothing was heard,
we just cocooned into each other,
knowing that one of us was about to fly
off without the other.
i walked back to that point a few days ago,
kicking up a few rocks as i got to the spot we meandered to,
and i sat down among the gravel and brush,
and i wept.
before we drove off that night,
you squeezed my hand three times.
it used to mean, “i love you,”
but i didn’t catch when it shifted,
and it meant, “i love you,
but i have to let you go.”
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