Commitment

My love for him is squirming lines on lined paper

And this lined paper is a box, a steel box I’ve put him into

This box is a falling missile and it’s coming

Oh, it’s coming

Falling

missiles

are

the start of a series of very sad poems

And these poems have always been the hoods I’ve raised when it’s raining

Our hoods are our hearts, somewhat cracked

Our cracked hearts are cracked skies

Cracked skies are uneven sunlight and confusing weather

I love weather

I love his weather

I love him whether or not I know it

When weather withers,

Love

Does not