When We Were Seventeen

Why is it that even now, space and time suspending
A bold battlement between us, I cannot write about you?
Oh yes, you live here veiled in such a vague frame,
Protected by the unyielding pronoun. You live here,
But you are not alive. Perhaps that is how I like it best.

You wrote with the hand of someone who wanted
To be sweeter, fancier, better. You wrote such kindnesses,
Yet I will always doubt the intent. I was killed by it.
Yes, I am writing about you but the comfort is
That you can never be you.
You never were the you you were to me.

Some day perhaps I can write of all that passed,
Maybe the memories will lay siege and I will need
To confirm or consider all that we were.
For now, the drawbridge seems closed.

Why is it that I do not write of you: your name,
Those days, those actions which will sicken me
Until I am no longer I?
It’s because I cannot bear that you might read it.
I cannot bear your satisfaction.