You like to insist
that you were my first man;
the first to hold me in solid arms,
in a frame that would protect me.
You teased me saying I was half in love,
and honestly,
I was.
I stood completely wrapped
in the gauze of infatuation,
a moth strangled in silk.
There would only ever be one of you,
so I licked your salt and fell,
intoxicated.
But no one can stay drunk forever.
And now I see you,
meek in your silence—
afraid, tongue tied,
petrified—and sobriety
drills into my head,
brutal and bright.
When the light ebbs,
I am left with only
the salted pangs
of disappointment.
Cowardly lion, you
are far
from manhood.