each one, endless
earlier attempts at poetry
left me breathless
and aching for a love
which i could ceaselessly write about:
you were never that boy to me
just a shell to fill
with pretty words
and i loved the way you
held me, in those
little sheets of paper
because it meant
everything to you
as i nervously fretted
about my crumbling talent
so i figured it out:
every lie you told
started
with the opening
of your mouth
so,
when it comes to jesus,
et cetera,
the tears fall
at the grieving
over forgotten faiths
and the first star i see
may not be
a star.