i lied to you (and
maybe i lied to myself) when i said that those were the last words i would ever write for you. perhaps i didn’t think you would be back or perhaps i didn’t think i would take you back, but either way you have come and gone again and all tear-stained promises and angry ultimatums aside these words must spill from this dilapidated soul so the orphan-pilgrim can be free. i am trying in so many ways to be enough for you can’t you see how much i am trying? can’t you breathe over me as i am dying? the poisoned air of this love unrequited the unpoised fare of this woman plighted when all i ever wanted was you, my love, all i ever wanted was you. yet i am always abbreviated punctuated depreciated and hesitated deeply bracing for you to let go and let go because that is what you do my love make a show of my soul it’s what they always do i know that this is not me this time not my fault not my deficit of enough and not my superfluous love it is you (my love) your magic and brilliance and strength and courage and depth and complexity and breadth and simplicity all wrapped up in a fifteen year-old boy that is trapped in the brawny muscle and bone and body of a man who misses his father where did you leave and why did you go? was i not good enough? i just need to know worth the time worth the trouble worth the work worth the words worth the truth worth the peace worth the pieces of you why? you call into the dark in the midnight hours, and so i ask the same of your withholden powers why? how can i be so torn apart? loving you so honestly and holding my heart together, waiting for the bottom to fall out always waiting for the bottom to fall out because you will let go of me (my love) you always let go why?
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about the writer.“Words are only postage stamps delivering the object for you to unwrap” (George Bernard Shaw) past tense.
January 2019
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