I told myself I wouldn't write this, but I did.
I told myself I wouldn't post this, but I am.
Expected actions from someone like you--
someone who craved a new existence--
someone who needed more than me,
more than my inadequate presence.
For them, oh--common behavior.
But you, my friend? You, my love
who held my heart with docile hands?
And here I thought that you were more
than the average leeches that have tasted
and chugged gallons of my thinning blood.
I now stand hollow. Transparent skin
reflecting not light nor any compassion,
but weeping emotions through dry tears.
Remember when your hope was lost
and your girl forfeited your dire efforts?
She fled, avoided, ignored and left
and you, alone, leaned away
eventually. Took what you could get.
I was all that you could get.
Perhaps I should have expected
disappointment, after all.
* * * *
I made a choice to be in this
and fight with every muscle and hope
and overcome flaws and fails.
I will remember. I will stay
and stand a step closer. Close
enough to provide support
to my love and counterpart.
* * * *
I taught myself to forgive
all sorts of flaws and afflictions.
People act, for reasons
both revealed and unrevealed by sight
(but so do I).
Actions, I've learned
tarnishes the skin of the perpetrator--
but that may be polished by their left hand.
More so, it gouges out, it hollows out
a chunk of hope from another's archive.
What can refill a loss of hope?
What can compensate innocent faith?
My pitcher is filled by a sticky substance
that molds and hardens to hopeless holes.
I pour a bit in to you and me--
better, we feel. A bit like before--
a bit like both had never happened--
a bit like flaws might not exist.
Except, of course, for discoloration.
It's been an interesting week.