I’ve given it my best.
The years frown back
from the mirror
to show me just how long,
until at last
I have to concede finality.
It’s over,
and I was the last
to know.
In spite of the realization,
it still hurts.
I’m told feelings are
hardest to let go of,
I suppose because
we’ve worn them
for so long.
Yet everyone knows
nothing is all bad.
The good was good,
but when the bad stretches
arrive more often,
stay longer
and hurt twice as much,
I finally see
the only time I’m happy
is when I’m alone.
The bad overshadows
anything good
and I see things
for what they really are.
Today, I stood in the yard
with my arms outstretched.
I had to see if he began
where my fingers ended,
- the way he used to,
but there was nothing there,
only air.
Then I checked my arms.
There must be needle tracks …
hell, he was like
an addiction,
but there were none.
When did the wrongs become
a way of life?
Apologies can no longer reboot trust
and there’s no going back.
In sad resignation
I’ve discovered I’m out of
last chances to give.
Feelings truly are
the hardest to let go of
and it really is
because we have a past,
and I ache knowing
there can be no future.
Nonetheless, I hate losing.
I loathe having failed at something
I’ve poured so much of me into
for so long …
but you just know,
and there in the
midst of the knowing
lies the death of a marriage.