Autumn slips over me like a stream

of bright silk, gathering me back

into my seams. It has been two weeks

since you touched me & already

I am curdling into myself like a quartered

apple, left behind at an open window.

Always your touch left me feeling both

effulgent & ruined, delicate & decimated.

When you put your arms around me

I whispered, Love me, which was a plea,

which was the price of me, which meant

Someday I want to be touched and feel

clean. When you left, I would hold

my head in my hands & tremble at the ledge

of myself, repeating, Oh heart. Oh head.

Oh this body, stupid with need. My limbs,

aching with greed. Open as a book torn

through its spine, every rifled page scrambled

& fluttering in the breeze. And how often

I compromised: If not his future, at least

his present. If not love, at least his desire.

Once, holding my face as gently

as a maple tree holds its spun leaves,

you called me more lovable

than anyone I know. And for so long

I read every sign of yearning

as love notes disguised as a body,

and I wonder now whether it disguised

how often I felt myself unlovable,

how often I named myself unlovable

in this light-slashed, love-bereft world.