I don’t love you anymore, but

in the sand dunes off a newly

laid boardwalk to the ocean,

in a childhood bedroom, equipped with

old beer glasses and a folding mattress,

in between parkway stops going left

instead of right stumbling upon meadows,

in a king sized bed overlooking Myrtle Beach,

whispers of blood dusting the sheets,

in a hot tub in the bowels of a Georgia

summer begging the night to be one longer,

in the Catskills near Hudson, wading into rivers

watching the afternoon sleep in your eyes,

I wish I’d said it one more time with lasting

conviction, made you feel it, trust it,

carving the words into your bones.