A one-time love that could have brought about murder – or sickness,
I dislodged you from that.
You came away from the wall crumbling, leaving a silhouette in stone.
There are stronger things I would have made you of
had I foreseen some glimpse of my own dismantling.
Your tears, so hot now, they do not soothe but scald your face –
this is my fault, and I think of it whenever an outside light comes on.
Some marking; the only way I could be sure of staying near you, and
I am sure always that you think of me,
knowing that you cry so often.