Once, when her mind grew restless, she would whisper, “Hey babe, I need my counselor.”
That was my title; the keeper of her truth, bruised but honest.
I held her confessions close, bled them clean with words that stung,
yet never judged. My voice was the lantern she followed
when the darkness gathered too thick around her thoughts.
When sadness took her, she called me best friend.
And I would fly to her, armorless, desperate to gather the pieces of her soul she dropped.
She would cry, and I’d whisper that she was beautiful,
that no storm could erase her light,
and that she would always have me... a promise I meant,
a promise I would bleed out to keep.
When jealousy consumed her, she called me names sharp enough to mortally wound the air.
She was terrified of what would happen were she to losing me; and I of proving her right.
So I’d take her trembling hand and walk her toward her imagined rival.
With a fool’s smile I’d say, “Pardon me mam, see this woman here? I’d burn my life to ashes for her.”
She’d punch me, blush crimson apologies to the girl, and drag me away.
When we were out of sight she would climb me like a tree,
kissing me until even the birds on a fence could no longer watch.
When anger claimed her mind, the house would quake.
Even the cat would vanish into safer shadows.
Still I would walk into her fire boldly!
Not to extinguish it, nor to play the hero
but simply to be where she would one day collapse,
ash falling from her sighs, her head finding its home
on the shoulder built to bear her ruin and rebuild her.
When desire came, she called me handsome.
Sometimes in daylight, sometimes in whispers that burned through walls.
We danced through light & darkness, saints and sinners both,
our rhythm slow as forgiveness or wild as regret.
There was laughter amid our wounds.
Laughter born from the madness of two souls reckless enough to love.
And when she missed me… she called me Baby.
The word trembled down phone lines, wrapped in longing.
Even on the phone I could hear the way she curled around my absence,
pretending pillows were my shape.
We’d talk until her breathing softened into dreams,
and I’d whisper I love you
before racing time itself to return to her in the dreamland.
But when she left... God, when she left... she called me nothing.
And that silence was the name I now live under.
No counsel left within me, no clever turn of phrase, no gallant rescue.
No fire suit can save me from the burn of watching another hold her.
No pillow, no prayer, no poetry can rebuild what she took.
We shared a pulse and she forgot to leave me one of my own.
It seems when she leaves me…
so do I.