Member-only story
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.
Naught for it, you said once.
(What will be will be.)
Words anyway to that effect.
Not then and not this, and nothing doing
but to say not I do not
accept.
No tears then
for the incurable here
in this, your living memory
put down in invisible ink,
squared unread away,
indivisibly.
