[it hits you]

it hits you,
blindsides you stepping from a curb
somewhere
crossing a simple street,
that everything
you loved about him was
beautiful;

the tone of his voice on the telephone
was honey,
the way he smiled
made you smile-
foolishly

but now
you understand,
he was never the these things,
only the essence of them

you understand that you
were in love with his ideas;
the smell of him trapped
in the grey velvour car seat

this shell, he was
your damaged cargo
through countless lonely nights
a warm body cradling your icy hands
and you,

you with your perfect hips
and abs,
standing in a dressing room
somewhere
flooded with artificial light
you've seen truth beneath the
love you dressed him up in

he was
your rag doll
your sounding board,
but you,
you've run out of things to say

and now,
walking in the streets of some
cool summer,
you look up and there,
there is this
night-haired boy crashing
slowly into you

and this is love:
two bodies crashing,
[with full adandonment],
crashing into
each other,
killing each other with
looks and
hands and
lips.