I am still in love with you.
I will hide this from you when you ask.
I will hide this from your Facebook feed.
I will hide this, most days, from myself.
I will hide this when in two weeks,
I make bold proclamations that I am feeling less hopeless over the diagnosis of friendship
and that seeing you will not gut me.
That seeing you will not strip every bone from my body,
shatter them against a wall,
grind my muscles into dust,
and leave me to walk home from the bar without feet,
I will say,
is more important.
The closet of your skeletons I keep,
The nights we sip on vulnerability,
drunk on “remember that time”
whisky, and promises we will never keep.
The first time you hugged me in Barney’s,
The night that could have ended in tragedy,
The time you didn’t kiss me,
The time you did kiss me,
The time you kissed me and I stopped you,
The time I didn’t stop you, but then cried in your bathroom,
The time you weren’t afraid,
Didn’t resort to a joke,
No defense mechanism.
Only your heart in rhythm with mine.
You are more important than I can explain rationally
to any of my friends,
who are correct when they remind me
that you, my love,
are a car wreck I continue to stare at.
The rejection letter I keep rereading.
My mother is shaking her head.
My ego is pleading for a cease and desist.
But last night, you texted me,
“You are everything to me.”
You are everything to me.
That is why,
I will lie to you,
about my love.
Because you are more important.