this story, like every other story,

starts from the beginning.

but first, i’ll tell you

what we became at the end of love.

 

1.  we didn’t become music;

we evolved to become sirens triggered

when touched by the wrong hands,

sometimes         even the right hands, too.

 

2.  we became a long list of all the things

we’ve always dreaded to become—a

no-strings-attached.

we became a “moment”

because that is all we can afford         to give.

we became an unsaved number texting to ask, “did you get home safe?”

i became a home

shaped without a lock. scavengers had a free pass

to raid my closet for stories & treasures, and

when a silence echoed back,

they grabbed anything in sight:

sometimes a pillow,

a moan,

a       poem.

 

3.  i became this poem,

the only thing love gave me

a chance          to be.

and it is such a cruel thing

that this poem will never get to experience you

in all the ways that i did. and for what it’s worth, it will not

preserve           you.

 

4.  we became “ordinary thing no dey move me again” and

“i’ve heard that before,

shey you dey whine me ni?”

 

5.  we became mindful enough to know

that actions don’t speak

louder than words; they lie       too.

 

6.  you became a memory,

one throbbing & screeching in my

mouth         to be just a “memory.” and it is such a cruel thing, that a prophecy

that is you & me can sizzle into

whisper,

it can curl into a question mark,

dabble towards asynchronies,

or simply just….         evaporate.

 

7.  and when love finds a crooked way

back to us,

we become a microscope—we force our eyes to search for stains

on clean sheets, we look hard enough

until we see

the         bad in everything

and the good in nothing.

once is enough to experience death; twice would be foolishness.

love is too big a gamble

to go plunging in a second time. there is

no safety net,

no guarantee it will not swallow

you

up in the same breath

if you dare open       your lungs to it.

 

7 ½.  they’ll ask me

what i became at the end of love

and i’ll say, “i didn’t become butterflies. i healed and built a wall

too high up to be placed on a            map.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Linnette Elizabeth on Unsplash