call me a ghost haunting around a lost cause
paralyzed by the past that leaves me
praying for something left to give.
i am not one to beg,
not to man and certainly not to gods,
but you are always the exception even
while i am splayed open and
cannot, will not, stop hurting —
despite your healing
that stitches enough to move on.
i cannot explain my desire,
left in the wake of pitiful longing,
when i know you want nothing of me.
i know i am a poor excuse for a man,
one who cannot let go of any stories that bruise me;
that i try too little and am excessively too much;
but you are my better days,
the clarity in the fog,
the calling to home.
i think it foolish when lovers say
that they cannot fathom living
without another,
but you make it easy to want to breathe;
to become better than myself;
to let go of stories no longer serving me
and lay them to rest.
— s.k.