I can't get back
what I never had in the first place,
regardless of how
much I tell myself otherwise.
This jealous itch to have what other men have
and I could have and
rejected,
the swarm of mixed feelings
about the nature of
it all,
of clinging (as she
put it in her poem last March)
or running away.
I've done both,
a rather silly notion
that if I close my eyes
all will turn out well,
when it won't.
I have to convince myself
of the one important notion
that is absolutely true.
She has every right to be
with whom she wishes to be,
even when it is not me
but this jealousy I
suffer from,
won't let me open my eyes to that reality,
and I do stupid things
say stupid thing
act out like a spoiled child
with the worse part,
one side of me aware
of the other side's silliness,
helpless to stop me
from acting out anyway,
a sad commentary on a
man my age
who supposedly has
some worldly knowledge.
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