If the heart can grow without wrenching, I have not known it.
Many chances, and I have not learned it
Mine, it seems, grows only by tearing.
I tell myself–savor, savor,
but sleep instead
Without scarring I do not wake
until each Eden is memory
A loss, a ripping away, a pulling
as I must go and my heart stays.
In the raw aftermath, new love takes root
Itself to tear, to grow, in time.
Despite my founded fear I dare not withdraw,
become stone against the stabbing
If love is loss, it has still reward enough, I think.
(Or perhaps the next tear will rip too deep to heal.)
Only, through my dreams,
memories shout–savor, savor
And if there is gentler love, I have not known it.