I think that we should have stopped a long time ago.
Whenever I was still finding coins in random places,
Like some sort of tithe into the heaven only I was capable of creating.
The tired calls, the wanting,
The desire to be there and be with you.
being friends wasn’t the kind of thing we could do.
It required halfheartedness. Required leeway.
the clouds built up around late February,
Like they do every year. I begged to just be okay.
As if either of us knew what that meant.
There is no us now; only the vacuous space
Created when you took control.
Pretending I was in charge could only last so long.
I wish that we could turn it around.
That I could be the one forgoing penance
In an effort to get into the kind of hell
Only you were capable of creating.
the tired drives. The “it’s not too late”s.
The belief that you can love someone
there’s a reason I lost my earring in your place.
She took it, an offering,
knowing that that wouldn’t be
She took it, knowing that I would press on;
I would try to turn it into some sort of meaning.
an explicable reason for what we were.
Never did I put faith in an archetype
Until you colored in the spaces.
A first son’s anger, an oldest daughter’s forgiveness;
A pressure inside me, relentless
As ever. Every plan getting put off
In favor of your explanation.
A glass of wine, a dying cactus, a meal I taught you, offering knowledge in favor of companionship.
If only you were capable of being who I thought you were.
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