Trespassers

When did you build a wall between us?
One with a sign, painted in bold red:
No Trespassing-
hiding on the other side where you might miss it,
so you might never know it's there.

When did it become a fallacy to believe
that love meant sharing everything?
I never imagined you would lock me out
without a key
outside the gate with the red, red sign
and stop the words tripping from thoughts to lips-
all in the name of love
for our future
for our faith
for our life
for our marriage, our children.

When did I become yours to possess?
I gave you my future, I thought,
but when did I consent to being
leashed, unknown
and constantly restrained,
worrying about an action here,
a word there,
the proposition that a flirtatious edge
might forever ruin what we have?

And when did the thoughts, words, ideas
that should have lengthened the leash
suddenly become the mortar of the wall
with the red, red painted sign?
Trespass forbidden, you said,
because you knew you were right-
only I didn't know, and I still don't know,
but I want to know.
And I want to know you.
And I want to know me.
And I want to know-is it me,
or you,
or all of us?

When did the wall go up
and the leash and the sign
and the paint-oh, the paint
in that dark, dark shade of that hideous red
-when did this happen,
did my trespass begin?