but he loved her until April:
beyond loyalty, letting shower water tell her
what I could never say.
when the story began, I was still writing
prose like poetry, only now he’s stolen a second
life away into a dissolving sunset.
but as she fell: flesh to space, head
to back, she only said it was easy to let go.

in the back of my mind, there are two whispers left.
before April, he had loved someone else, but they
were less ghost than stranger.
I don’t have much left to say to her, so if
it’s not I love you, then it’s I’m sorry I couldn’t tell.