Love, I Can Not Come And Go Tonight
Love, I cannot come and go tonight—
my body is a door swollen with weather,
its wood too tender from all the opening.
I have stood in the hallway of your wanting
with my palms laid flat against the grain,
feeling the quiet throb of its yes,
its no,
its maybe—
and I am tired of being a threshold
you cross in the dark.
There is a tenderness that bruises—
you know it,
the way a peach gives beneath the thumb,
sweetness rising even as the flesh insists
on its right to remain whole.
I have given you the soft parts,
the ripened syllables of my longing,
and watched you come,
and watched you go,
like someone checking weather patterns
instead of a heart.
Tonight I stay—
not in your arms,
but in my own.
I gather the small trembling animal
of myself, hold her close,
whisper that love is not a revolving door
spun by fear or hunger.
I will not be the room you leave
half-warmed,
the bed still shaped to your absence.
If you want me,
it must be with the slow courage
of roots thickening under the earth,
the way a river keeps its promise
to return to itself.
Love, I cannot come and go tonight.
But if you choose to stay—
then stay.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
