We are the stare of Medusa,
born beautiful and disfigured by wrath,
I am under the spell, locked in stone:
one hand on the doorknob,
one arm crossed against my chest,
my form a frozen arrow through the doorway,
my posture an unmistakable one-way ticket out.
I am breaking under cover, desperate to hold you,
but my voice, my love are suspended in my chest.
I am praying that you notice I am looking out,
bound inside by grief, pinned mute and motionless,
in my eyes the weak light of soul reflected, faltering.
You will leave tonight,
or we will break each other again tomorrow,
and regret will collect around my walls like briar.
It keeps out those who might crack the surface:
the wise will see my pallor and steer clear,
the passionate will prick their hands then mistake me for stone.
With you, without you, I will grow old,
hard from the heart outward,
and the statue I leave behind will be a eulogy
to honor the beauty we have taken from each other.