Love of wounded..

I once told a man I loved him
And I meant it; but he didn't believe me

I always wondered why that was,
Until I looked at the wound inside my own chest
and realized that;
I hadn't believed him, either,
When he had told me the same thing..

So I allowed myself to go on loving him,
Not with beautiful declarations -
they have little use -
But with silence, in a continuous,
Secret action that is almost
Like absence.

I allowed myself to go on loving him
The way angels tuck someone in to sleep,
Kiss their foreheads goodnight and
Fly out the window, unseen,
Expecting nothing, floating at a distance,
But still keeping the nightmares away..
Regardless of whether or not their devotion
Is discarded as fiction.