Anymore. Poem by Ben Wallace

I wonder if anyone really understands the love,
the love we... I had for you,
you hurt me with your accusations,
every snip of your sharp wit
and cut of your bladed tongue,
I loved you.

Yet not even I, with the vocabulary you adored,
my silver braided tongue and my poets sadness,
can really understand the way I love you,
even now, after you're gone...

I've kept all the recordings
and photographs
drawings and memories.
I wear them on my sleeve,
which is damp from wiping the tears away,
that fall when I listen to your voice.

Your voice, your powerful,
soulful, beautiful voice.
Even when you trip over English words,
I can hear the true beauty,
because you spoke to me in your language.

A poem, called my love, you said,
though I don't understand it,
I can tell almost what you say, then.

Now it's just 'I love you'
on repeat, the oscillator spectrum
forms the rough shape of a castle
with your words 'I love you.'

I stood under your winter lights,
and your cold heart,
I offered you my warmth,
my love and my pride,
I took your coldness,
gave you heat,
life and love...

And only one part of what you said
is true anymore.
You do not love me,
anymore.