Wednesday, January 28
Delicately Untangled
I am gently writing this down with tired eyes,
A pen and paper sigh, permitted to decree it,
Read, speak, interpret and free it.
I am telling you now - there is nothing left of me,
For you, for two, no, nothing at all.
Not even a part, a corner, a decimal.
Water and salt fill my heart to the brim.
No space is found in the tiniest hem being sewn.
The whole mess has grown and diminished.
My sorry is here, content to hold still,
Stabled and sealed, delicately addressed to you,
For all I cannot do in your lonesome hour.
But our hearts cannot help but to untangle midair.
Be my guest to twist, to glare, to raise your fist angrily,
There is no winning pair – I am simply not there.
Labels: On Giving Up
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