Imagined Conversation

I fear the satyr:

But not as much
as I am terrified of love.
I have watched it lying,
barely moving,
face down on my bed.
I have tried to breathe life
into its stubbornly slack
blue lungs.

(And while it is true
that I am learning
that what is dead,
is not always dead
for good, or ever,

I seem to find
my lovers in their winter.
I trip over their bodies,
covered in the snow
of their pain.)

I fear the satyr,

but not as much as
the tangled horror of loss.
I cannot breathe for the
little catches that stitch
my inhales.

Once love was
natural to me,
coral to an ocean.

I only wanted your warm
skin against mine, and
all the time.

Now solitude is
my ocean.

I think I understand how you felt.