rather,

when i thought you would leave,
harsh, empty words between us,
the moon moving too far,
fat in my window then gone,
i was relieved.

there is nothing so
harsh, empty,
as the realization that, this way,
my hand would be forced.
quiet touches--
brush your hair from your eyes--
but the moon hangs, content,
under the eaves of my porch.
but bitter,
knowing that i would end


up wasting you.
hopeless,
wishing for white dresses,
cloth the color of the moon,
as it moves quietly out of my sight.

you told me i was incredible.
for the first time,
once in all occurrences,
i believed the words
as they pushed past your teeth.
it is almost a shame,
knowing that you meant them, too.