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You forget it here when you leave,
but I still feel the heat
that pulled me through the wall.
You leave me your clothes
and your apologetic promises
in an attempt to change the way I feel.

I wonder what you feel
watching me watch you leave.
Don't promise
me something you can't give: the heat
of your arms and not just your clothes.
Why build up that wall?

The plaster on this wall--
that I can touch, can feel,
something solid, unlike these clothes
that crumple like leaves,
afraid of the secret heat
I draw from your failing promises.

All that's left are promises
which I use as a wall
to keep away the heated
words I want to scream, to make you feel
the betrayal of your leaving,
the insult of these clothes.

In my hands, your clothes
are as limp and empty as the promises
which you declared, then left
me (still weak-kneed and crying against the wall,
wondering if someone else's heat
would correct these feelings).

Yes, I felt
even as I held your clothes,
that pull for the heat
of anyone as long as they made no promises...
because I knew, even as I hit the blind wall:
you will alwys be the one leaving.

1 May 2001