It’s not that I don’t love you.

If gravel stirs and birds cry
perched on reeds like pikes in heads
then I, too, move in the world
and I, too, shrink from strangers.

It’s not that I don’t love you.
It’s just –
it’s just that ice is never safe
my hands clam up, anyways –

we once formed a colony
we’d put our hands together
taking everything, winning nothing
still we held and clung to tight
heart-shaped pillows stuck in claw machines.

“The heart swindles,” they always said
that love is real but best unsaid

Published by

johnghyatt

Writer, cheese eater, NYC dweller.

7 thoughts on “It’s not that I don’t love you.”

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