The love we used to have―did it come in gray,
Like gravel for us to walk on?
Pebbles in your pocket grind me up,
Render me down, soften me into constituents;
The minerals are as brittle as I used to be,
And the color of my eyes in every handful . . .
All the colors you couldn't remember.
But you'll still sometimes reach in and gather me up,
Letting me run through your fingers in rivulets,
Sifting through for saltpeter―
You haven't destroyed enough yet; you still want me to help you.
As if I understand what I'm made of,
As if I ever understood,
As if you could, with or without me,
You ask. I never answer. You can do it on your own.
When whatever's left has scattered on the powdered ground,
Walk the path I've made for you,
And never look back.