We haven’t spoken for years, yet my wounds are fresh.
Your sword’s point, it’s center ridge, the length of its groove,
as if a ghost knight buried his blade in my chest.
It’s no secret, I once loved you more than the rest,
despite your duplicity, your sarcasm disguised as humor.
We haven’t spoken for years, yet my wounds are fresh.
You dazzled me, with your passionate, performative quest
to woo me, bamboozle me. I can’t staunch the blood
as if a ghost knight buried his blade in my chest.
Humility, generosity, courage, a human striving to be his best.
At the beginning, I believed this was your goal, your code.
We haven’t spoken for years, yet my wounds are fresh.
I’m slow to trust now. A suit of armor over my breast.
You chameleon, you knave of spades, you eater of hearts.
We haven’t spoken for years, yet my wounds are fresh.
From helmet to baton, I’m protected, self-possessed.
Each day I renew my vow to shield myself from harm.
We haven’t spoken for years, yet my wounds are fresh
as if a ghost knight buried his blade in my chest.
Photo by Warren Wong on Unsplash
