Sometimes we say too much, thinking we say too little, this
profanity we mistakenly engage int, then regret, leaving hope lost in the
exchange – what we wanted is not prudent in a day when we always want too much
and give back too little, condemned now to admire from a distance the way a moth
might admire a star.
What love I have must be unrequited, must be sent from this
place to that place on some winged messenger with no real connection, no tender
touch, only the desperate words to convert her rage into something less acute.
I have nothing left but this, the vain desperation that is never enough, a
heart that skips beats even in defeat, admiring what I see, living with what I
must feel, stranded in a place where she used to be, and where only in spirit,
in imagination, ever stand together again.
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