There was never the chance for me to say,
for me to say that you were the way
I managed to survive this passing year
and overcome my paralyzing fear.
You don't get to be jealous,
or in any way upset at what is going on,
because you sir,
you have always had a hand in everything,
and it was me who had to find
my footing after you so broadly
chose someone else over me,
And it is I who has to endure all
of the countless rantings about these
girls that I like and love and are friends with
but are not, and can never,
be close to.
And you think that I do not know jealousy?
We've acquainted--several times.
We've seen each other through and through.
I'm worried about the way things form,
and about who will leave and lead and lose
and how the lost will continue to live,
or lack the love that is kindled now
for the lonely soul that already left.
Some say this soul--he had it figured out,
he did what he could--fight or flight--
and took the initiative. Hoped for the best,
went out like a bird from the nest,
or a candle with a dimming flame.
Perhaps that bird had broken wings,
but I know, we know, that it still could sing.
And he sang, he sang, though I never once
was able to hear the sound, but someday
someday I know he'll sing again,
and my hands will be there, gently now,
mending wings and hearts and broken bones
and love that faded, spilled onto the floor,
and all will be lovely, and beautiful.
We will have each other--all--
we will know how indeed we managed to live.