And it was just three words, make no mistake,
but there it hung, and burned into my eyes.
The question left no room for a disguise:
I was forgotten, or at least erased.
And then I knew there wasn't any chance
for her to feel a thing but hate for me.
The tide we swam grew angry, and the sea
then pulled us, thrashing, from the shore. Her glance
was angry, too, replete with hurt and doubt.
Her choice was hers, the same as mine was mine,
no matter how our selves were intertwined,
the riptide offered only one way out.
And I can't blame her, I would hate me too,
for what I am, if not for what I do.