Skip The Details
i've got a machine heart, grinding and poorly oiled, lurching to love with the grace of a steaming locomotive. you once asked me what kind of ring i wanted; i answered titanium because it was stronger than anything else i knew, except my determination to love you well. i thought i could, i thought i could, i thought i could love you enough so that you'd stay and so that i could make you happy but you made me realize that i can't love someone who doesn't love herself. and now i'm left with wishes. i wish i didn't know now what i didn't know then. i wish i didn't know about all the other men and where you were when you didn't come home. i wish i hadn't seen the pictures and didn't know their names because i thought that i was through with playing stupid college games. you wrote me a letter once and told me that you were sick and desirous and i'm beginning to think it's the only true thing you ever said and one true thing isn't enough to keep us afloat. now we've scuttled our ship of foolishness and we're stranded on separate desert islands. do you know how to make a raft? maybe someday we can sail away from all this and go beyond the sea somewhere. in the meantime, i'm going to start swimming.