‘til Next Time

Without you, I became odd—
Unbalanced.
There was always something nice
About even numbers.

At 22, we blossomed.
I potted plants for every
New name you gave me.
There were exactly 12.

You were always the quiet one.
But at 27, you erupted.
Lava o’ertook your rosy lips
Where love had once lived.

You said things—
Words, without
Ever being there.
All your love was
Human
As were the ways you gave it.
I had no choice, but to take it.

And now,
We waver.
On the edge of being
And non-being.

Maybe the next time I write,
It won’t be a love poem.
Maybe the next time I write,
We’ll be neighbors in memory.