a confession five years too late by Fray Narte

was there ever a time that i didn't love you? 

i always have: 

in the kisses neatly lined along my shoulders, to where

your fingers dug and left the ache of buried bones. in the

epilogue — an afterthought at the bus stop where i recede

and float with the rest of your memories: a lonely ghost

that follows you home — 

reaches for your hand, traces the apollo line, then lets go. 

was there ever a time that i didn't love you? 

i always have: 

in microdoses of longing on rose gold floors. in october's sunglow, 

dripping away like candle wax — 

burning, but not enough to numb. 

in the doleful chatters of the dusk, we are not lovers — we are merely the envy of poems 

i couldn't write several selves ago — 

but all of them have loved you one way or another, this i confess. 

distorted and quiet. 

desperate and clear. 

in all forms lingering. 

in all forms alive. 

in all forms, yours. 

was there a time i didn't love you? 

i suppose i always have.