on growing old in my boots

the time we spent 
together was kind,
until it wasn’t

but it’s been a while,
so maybe i’m getting
some wires crossed here

and i never did learn 
how not to need, 
not to want

would you have told
me if that wanting was
too much, if it was too
big for you to hold?

i know nostalgia is
a liar, just as you were,
just as you are

so i’ll take my leave,
pack my bags and
exit through the backdoor
while you’re pretending to
be asleep

i wonder if you’ll listen
for the clinking of the
spurs on my worn boots,
the soft whinny of a 
dappled mare and the
harsh closing of a barn door

will you mourn the heat
of my sleeping body when
that side of the bed grows colder
and colder?

i wish the blood in my mouth was yours,
but mercy ain’t what pays the bills,
is it, cowboy?