You arrive uninvited—
slipping into my dreams,
stirring up the ache
of an empty bed.

We are fault lines,
two halves of a broken bridge
waiting for the river
to wash us clean—
unsure of which side
to stand on—

We are left and right,
bold and broken,
fierce and faded—
a paradox
of love and ache.

I love you—
but mostly,
I hate you—
for what we were,
for what we are,
for the bridge between us,
neither of us
knowing
how to mend.

This is not a common era

The trouble is threefold

Drinking from an empty glass

Opening the door to strangers

Walking along these jagged cliffs

If you tolerate this

Your children will be next