Why have I not written you a poem?
I asked myself that throughout our time,
not wishing to malign, to concretize, or mislabel,
because the muse did not move me to feel so drawn - I worried that I didn’t feel compelled, and that that meant something.
And it did mean something.
I sit with my heartbreak now, most days managing well,
That’s what they say, anyway.
Sometimes,
I miss the subtle ways, you infiltrated my day with comfort and ease.
The created space, in which I could shift the weight and just be,
The lack of task, of drive to compete,
The loving gift -to feel rather than editorialize,
That was my why – each and every time.
And sometimes even, I miss the twist,
the way I could ignore my existence -and dwell on yours,
that care taking role, the letting go
myself on hold, to be yours…
overthinking each little thing,
despite it not being asked for,
and not expected.
I guess this is your rose,
And maybe now with the floodgates open,
I can close out our chapter, and move to the next
I’ve never been great at letting go,
But forgive me, I’m also not so good at remembering.
