Cold Feet

by Emily Criswell

when you lie under the stars

you know she doesn’t love you,

not forever and always anymore –

she tells you that a question mark

is just half of a beating, bleeding heart

connected by graphite lead on paper

and you know she means to say

that she doesn’t believe

you love her back, not anymore, not forever –

under the stars you lie with each other,

side by side, fingers never daring to touch

as your arms dangle, lie at your sides,

while you lie to her when you say

that you’ve never thought that a heart

is just two question marks without the dot,

which is your signature on the marriage license

you had to sign before the wedding –

she doesn’t love you, and now you understand

that this is why she has cold feet,

not because you’re two women in love,

and she’s afraid of what the town will think

when the church bells ring –

that instead the rice will be thrown at you,

instead of into the air for the blue jays –

she’s terrified – absolutely shaken,

because you’re two women

who have fallen out of hearts –

now you’ve become two question marks,

while that dot underneath you,

which kept you afloat for so long

renders you a mess, completely undone,

and never was yours to keep –