Love, Bones, Remains

You were another outside
of me, a voice, a scent, a shape,
a body. An aspiration I wished
could love me. You did. We lived
together closer until your love
of me became a skin, an armor
against cold and darkness. You
loved me in perfect concert.
Then seams, cracks in the husk
of me, swaths where I could see
myself again; blue, lonely, ugly.
I guessed you loved me less,
had other interests. The horrid
thoughts I had of me. That you
could forget. That I was unworthy
of you loving me. Then we hit
earth, ran aground, afoul of a reef
between you and me with coral
deep enough to cut us. It didn’t.
I learned your love of me wasn’t
an armor falling off, but sinking
in, becoming the bones of me,
giving shape, invisible. Allowing us
to walk, invincible. Until the day
the soft, false outsides of us
fails to remake itself. Until
nothing but our love-bones
remain will I doubt our shape,
doubt your love of me, or trust
the mirror over your laughter,
over your sense, your confidence,
which shapes and steels me.

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