The ache of young
love,
as the wizard called it,
turns to agony as we age,
Never able to heal right
An always open wound
The scab of which
We insist to peel off
Again and again,
Pondering if it is real love
Or merely infatuation
Feeling the throb down in the bones,
Along with the memory of
One time joy,
the “affair of the mind”
Is now medieval torture,
the inquisition of
early morning
asking over and over
what she did wrong
and how, after the
fact,
does she remake it,
the echo in her head
saying: she can’t,
knowing there is no true
to the old adage of
better to have loved and lost…
when on the lost side
she can’t recall what came before
or why the devil didn’t keep
his part of the bargain,
leaving her with only pain.
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