I set to cheering
empathic heartbreak,
50 times’ worth, holding it in;
depressing the key for 11 seconds,
then letting it out — part sad,
part stricken.
So this is how acceptance feels;
what fell light amid the gloom.
There’s greater in our lives and time,
but this is no more than
sufficient.
It occurred to me then
that I can’t stop you dying.
Unforgiveable how we forget.
(You probably hated me when we met
not knowing you’d
love me yet.)
And, too, I knew,
neither can you (stop).
See, this is what nobody sees:
What smarts about you being called a martyr
(if it fits), is it just makes it
harder to breathe.
The thing
of the thing I suppose
is this: it couldn’t much get any worse.
Which, when you think about it,
with every second it does.
