Poetry

SUSPECT

That sceptical look
I thought was so fine –
and so terrifying,
because I
was never sure
if you believed me
or if I should be believed.

We approached it
as a task,
hard masters
exacting
such
standards of love
that we
never could relax

Always straining
for the prize,
our happiness
a point
we would arrive at
with truth.

But still I loved you.
I do. You
made
so much
seem possible
without
ever really coming true

You were the
nearest thing
I ever knew
but intermittently
so that
the flashes
got bent
and began to seem
an indictment

And in the end
what
had always been suspect
grew
like a bogey
too much imagined

Too late to prove
to you
how I was true
before I ever was untrue.