Here’s love, she says, her hand outstretched and cupped.
Regret has pushed my chin upon my chest.
Her hand begins to shake, to interrupt
my reverie of guilt still un-confessed.
It’s yours, she says in syllables of fear
concealed in words of certainty and trust,
then sheds her aspirations with a tear,
a second one for me, a third for us.
She sits to give my silence room to stand,
as heavy as the crushing of a wave,
still cupped and still outstretched I see her hand
too small, too late, too justified to save
my soul. My soul is now completely sold
for wax and string instead of polished gold.