teach me how not to love.

teach me how not to love,

how to fold myself into halves then quarters,

how to keep my hands against the tide of the

universe, the glisten of a star, to keep my palms

pressed against the knob of a door.


because comfortable with you can get too comfortable,

like how the curves of your elbows meet with the curve

of my hips, how i have sought refuge in your eyes, and

poetry in your walk


teach me how not to love,

to look at you with eyes that don’t shine, and a heart

that’s as open and free as the highway.


i want to walk with my legs bent against the universe,

my bones edging their way through me, reaching upwards

like how plants reach for light. i want to throw lightning

streaks around as if i were made of star-shine


teach me how not to love

the way i do. teach me that love has loss mixed in, and

it’s as transient as that giddy headlong smile of yours, that

its for seasons and short visits.


teach me

because you seem to be such an expert at it.


One thought on “teach me how not to love.

  1. I love simplicity, bits of poetry, and rambling too, and I love the layout of your blog. This poem is one of my favorites so far reading backwards. Thank-you for sharing your gifts!

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