Real Love

by Adva Ryan

I.

If I knew you were dying,
I would tell you that I love you.

I love you as Neruda said,
without knowing how, or when, or from where.

If I knew I’d watch myself lose you,
I would still choose to have you, in the first place.

I would still choose your ineffective blinds and
dripping sink. I would still choose the purple

beneath your eyes and the years it took
for you to let me hear you sing. 

I would still wind myself in white sheets and
hear your morning voice on the phone,

dark roast brewing in the background. 
I would still steal from your closet

and use your calculus exercise book
to scribble out love notes before I leave. 

If I knew the decline would not stumble,
it would run, it would sprint faster

than we did, racing full speed
down the Cumberland Valley Rail Trail,

I would tell you that you won fair and square,
and not because I was laughing.

Because you were always faster than me.
You had to be. Your shadows were shadows of

black figures biding their time,
ready to close in and take you.

If I knew that no amount of pleading
to the gods your mother believes in

(Women, Literature, Gardening),
no refills of Bystolic or Zebeta,

no amount of wiped-away tears
or daybreak vigils, your chest

rising and falling, rising and falling,
like nothing was wrong,

could restore your steady pulse
and reverse hypoxia,

could let you hold me tight,
could give us another sprint,

another home, another life,
I would still try.

I would try with all my heart
and when it came time,

when the doctor, lips pressed firmly together
would refuse to answer me,

would nod a solemn condolence,
I would never say goodbye.

No black dress could take the place
of memory before memory.

If I knew your eyes would roll blank,
your tall frame would lie prostrate,

your last word would be my name, searching,
and you’d never hear me cry,

I’m here, I’m here.
I would tell you that I love you. 

II.

None of this has happened.
You’re waiting for me to explain why the book I am reading

on disease and old age
has dissolved into my chest and become a weight.

I don’t know what to tell you. I am afraid.
I reach for your hand,

feel it strong and young and true
and I don’t say anything,

I smile and shrug at you.
Real love is a heart attack.

And if I knew. If I knew,
I would tell you that I love you. 

Adva Ryan is an anonymous queer, female, Jewish writer located on the east coast of the United States. She is a graduate student and avid reader. She hopes to give voice to experiences that have long been excluded from the poetical canon.