Untitled (For an Old Poet, III)

This was not the story
we wanted,
my dearest;
this was not our dream
of nights in a city
we are cursed to.

For as hard as I try,
for as many offerings that I make,
for as much ink that I bleed,
I cannot turn initials into acrostics
I cannot protect you from shattered glass
I cannot deliver you from hurt,
as there is no path that avoids it.

Instead,
I must look at the woman
who sleeps across the hall
with solemnity and care,
and grasp the moments of lightness
and hold them close
before they slip into the river.

And as much as much as I want to,
I cannot promise you
it was worth anything
other than what love
is always worth.

But I can promise you,
my dearest,
my old poet,
that I will always fight our battles,
even when the losses
feel far more weighty
than the wins.