An Unfortunate Tale

by Elizabeth Moore

Unfortunately, I met someone

whose heart was a treasure,

but whose healing, undone.

Unfortunately, I fell too soon,

before he was ready,

before he had room.

Unfortunately, it happened again,

new guy, same shit,

so I picked up the pen.

Unfortunately, I always fall 

for the rain in the street, 

for the cracks in the wall. 

For the way that the dawn makes a velvety sky,

for the sommelier’s hands, 

and the ways we say good-bye. 

For the low-maintenance men with so few demands: 

their bodies close,

their hearts in distant lands.

Unfortunately, they never know how they feel,

maybe can’t, maybe won’t—

maybe don’t know if it’s real.

Unfortunately, they’re always so full of things,

perfectly odd things that are perfect to me,

perfectly odd things that are gone by the spring.

And–can you believe it?–I fell again tonight,

for the woman in the window,

reading by candlelight.

Unfortunately, I guess what I’m trying to say

is that falling means breaking

and breaking means pain.

And unfortunately, they’re never around

to witness the newness,

the wholeness, the sound

of those once shattered pieces

now twirling with light.

An unfortunate tale—

we rewrite and rewrite.