The Circumference of a Heartbeat

Love is a circle of cruel things
That has trapped me in its sphere,
Binding me in one fetal position,
As the body is bound to earth
By the ever-present gravity.
I haven’t found what it is I need,
And I’m unsure if I ever will,
If in every instance that comes after,
I continue to search for you within.

To me, you said,
“Have a good life,”
One where I am “more content and satisfied.”
Back then, it felt insulting—
I cannot pretend.

Like rubbing salt
In a wound left open,
And using one’s thumb
To press upon the wounded flesh.
Like knowing my life
Will not be fulfilled
With you now removed from it,
Yet telling me
That you hope it is anyway.

But someday,
There will be someone new.
I will wake up
In the early hours of the morn,
To be consumed wholly
By the thought of them,
And the knowledge of their existence.

The only change in my misery
Will be that they think the same of me,
So that when I have sat in bed awhile,
Digesting the thought of them,
And I turn towards where I hope they’ll be
To live the memory as a reality,
They will be present by my side
With arms wide open,
Ready to embrace.

And then,
Maybe twice forgotten
Wouldn’t make me a loser after all.
For, finally,
I would’ve found them.
And in them,
My every being will be framed…
As yours is
In my heart.
For love is a circle of cruel things,
And in its sphere,
I am captive.