We have been laying siege to one another,
but the subtle suspicion that you loved me less
than you continued to profess with your armies of polished words
and your shining shields advancing to close the space across green fields
has been gathering like blood in my brain,
pink and battle-toxic to my pretty fogbreathed memories of you.
It might have begun with the dull distant snap
of a knowing strategic something in my lungs-
an intuition of a war different from the one I fought inside
though a war nonetheless-
the first time you said no to simple leaps, treaties
I asked you to make for the sake of love, for me,
for the quickly running time that I wanted
to gather so close about me like a castle stronghold,
in which to fortify myself against the other truths I knew.

And since having heard that inflected touch in your voice,
sounding out from the times you mask your face to me,
but still revealing more than you know, more than just
that you decided against the signing of certain terms
but that you long ago knew you would not leave the gates open,
my blood sings like a restless warborn camp, soldiers whispering
in slippered vein patterings like horses anxious to die on the front,
sighing in my lungs after the parleys I twist my tongue through
that the meaning of love is so much more
than the slivers of shining land you offer me,
than the guise of a white flag that requires me to give up my home,
a flag shadow-stretched by the weave of your words and deft hands to catch the most light,
but after the battle, as dark empty and unfulfilled
as any walled stronghold when all its soldiers are strung out on the field
and the fires inside have raided their rage and burned down
and the lamps in stone walled windows are long since doused.