One would’ve thought, maybe an apology.
But there seems no words for this.
Except to say anything else would
have to be enough. So we’ll go through
one life uncomplaining. We be
industrious fools in love.
I wouldn’t have wanted, for instance,
another life. Would I? You read
the tell-tale signs when all
seemed placid. I do envy and
I do not. As if all of it was
enabling me to enter
a register of gains and losses,
say aha (have I yet to say?);
some gray ending having measly
thoughts of having failed, then
the euphoric truth that
I was loved after all.
Prompt: It seems some days since I wrote. Sometimes you just feel the need for a reset button. Don’t you? Writing after all is an act of courage, and of faith, and all of which would be pointless if not for love. Lover of truth, aren’t we all? Isn’t that why you bother to read at all? So let your poem come to some point of truth. An epiphany of sorts. What, you do have epiphanies don’t you?