The Part Where You Let Go

A park bench
just the two of us,
staring at the moon
our hands clasped between us.
My head on your shoulder,
your cheek on my hair
and I think how flawlessly
we fit,
how your fingers fill
the emptiness between mine
perfectly.

My father,
dead three months now,
and my mother drinking again.
A babe growing
alive in the belly,
my sister wishing,
wishing,
she'd listened to the silence
instead of the noise.

I told you,
Wherever you are,
that is the only place,
the only place
I feel at home.
And the kiss you gave me,
it seemed to say that you
would never leave me
homeless.

My brother,
returning once more,
with his rage at the world.
The money,
hidden in my closet
replaced by needles
under his bed.

Walking together,
your warmth next to me
proof that it's all okay,
your voice reassuring me.
You smile at a passing girl,
And if your eyes linger,
I don't notice because
your hand still holds mine.

My mother,
lost in a dream of no-more
ignoring the pain that draws lines
across my sister's arm
tic-tac-toe games gone
horribly wrong,
and the way my brother
paints his face gray with
the stuff in his veins.

The park bench again,
both of us,
half of you,
and all of me.
You speak words in my ear,
and look at the sky,
instead of me
and you've moved away a little.
You say,
you should leave, it's getting late.
And I don't understand.

The broken bottles,
the carefully clean blade,
the chain of the needle.
I didn't know,
didn't know.
How could I have known?

These were just the opening act.
Just the opening act,
leading to
the part where you let go.