you shouldn't be able to just decide
that you don't love me any more,
it should be something greater than a CHOICE--
love should be something more than
a week of silence could conquer.

you should be something planted less deep in my skin.
you should be something more easily removed from my heart.

the edges of our book curl up with age,
are yellowed from misuse
and hard summers.
our book is paper pages, thin like bibles
and the ink smeared, beloved paperback.
the cover of our book is
stained with coffee, sex, and cheap ballpoint
markings of an avid learner.
our book is new but ancient,
our book is so dry it falls apart in the sunshine.
the words of our book are too old to be read.

you are scripted,
a close-minded closed loop
of self-serving information.
you are a gospel,
a reinforcement of culture
and social values,
a quiet damnation of individuality
and singular peace.
you are a text of great importance
in the narrative of my life,
a character called and cast,
a course correction necessary
for my daily disobedience.
you are my gospel,
a track of words and motions and images
where i turn for inspiration
and for silence.

because gospels do not speak,
are only cold words on a thin page.

the lack of you has changed.
months ago it was pain, a deep ache
like a cancer in my stomach.
now all it means is discomfort,
feeling off course and unsure
which is its own kind of pain.

sarah, esther, rachel, where is my precedent?
naomi, where is my narrative to follow?
eve or mary, why not even a hint
of what is to come?

hagar, it is your path
that i am learning to see in my own.
the sale of loyalty and love,
the bondage of a body that might once have been
free, capable, careful.
in my heart you are a bronze pedestal,
a golden hand reaching down.
in my eye you are taller than even the mountains.