The Woods of What's Left

I can no longer tell

what love is and isn’t,

and anyhow

I’d only do something silly

if I could,

like trying to hold it,

until I rip

once more along that

old fault line of hope

and fear.

I think I’d rather let

the question dissolve

in the warmth between

our hands, and just keep

walking through these
patchwork woods
of what’s left of you, and

what’s left of me.