A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

Different perspectives: we walk this city again

and you gush over happy memories 

of the first time we explored these laneways together,

asking me if it was not simply the most wonderful holiday.

It was not. 

We walk these cobblestoned alleys and I remember

the tension, and how I broke my rules 

to make you happy, and still you accused me 

of overreacting and spoiling the fun. I remember

this little shop on the slope, and the simple piano melody

leaking out the speakers causing leaking out my eyes, 

an overflow of sorrow tinged with hope. I heard

his response within the duet and I clung to it as though it was yours:

indeed, my head was running wild again,

you’re right, it’s in my mind. I heard your voice

promising with him, that we still had everything,

that you loved me still and none of this was as dire as I believed.

And I believed.

Different perspectives: a familiar tune, 

right from the start, and I wonder if this is my answer:

it rekindled the fire once before, but this time

when he crosses that bridge to say he’ll fix it for us,

and nothing is as bad as it seems, I am not placated.

There is no comfort in pretty words from this pretty boy

who fails to say I hear you and I see your pain and your fear,

and I am here with you.  Instead, he says I don’t understand

what your problem is, and this time around, with all the water

under the bridge, I hear it differently.  I don’t hear 

the gentle reassurance of

my darling, everything is okay.

All I hear is there you go, overreacting again, reading

too much into everything, being too much,

and suddenly those empty sheets between our love

is the expanse of an ocean

that I’m crying for us.