But you[s] didn’t love me back, did you?

I loved you once but you didn’t love me back;

you said you loved this me who I was,

but instead you lied to a me, childishly entranced.

 

And I thought you were everything I pleaded,

but in truth you were just the drama

queen and control freak I never needed.

 

And so out of your silences, and your drawbridges

and your portcullises, and your puttings me here

and there and up and down and soundly

 

saddened and baddened, and the history of

moments once treasured, and thus damaged beyond

repair, I find the new me.

 

 

For even if you now chose to speak to me,

I would choose another: not any other, mind;

not strife

 

who never loved me as I desired but loved

me as only she could: and the tough life of emotion-

absent promised lands banned any progress

 

to the good we might have had.

And I never had her as she deserved: and she

never had me as she would have enjoyed

 

so much and so happily and so

verily, and then some more – no chore nor

tasked responsibility nor duty; just the love

 

which should’ve been and never was, and

because it never was, nor were we.

And now your drama queenery

 

and your control freakery have gone and

lost you another soul who might’ve made of your

life a far more wonderful and total and beautiful

 

pebble of blue and rippling ingenuity: and the

grand capacity you have attributed me to

be and see and do and feel and joke, and choke

 

on the absurdities of life’s reality, and the loves

and thrivings and doings much much more than

the plain survivings which pattern and

 

spatter and blatter your buttered scones

and your habits and your daily routines,

designed so unambitiously to

 

keep fear and stuff at bay.

And I stayed, yes I did, for over a decade of

my life: parked on autopilot, waiting for

 

a wife: waiting for a partner, if no longer

prepared for wifedom: waiting on a fact

which never was a fact, any more.

 

But last night that decade ended: last night

my waiting completed: last night was

the last night I refused not to label you:

 

last night was the night I admitted good

friends were right: you’re a wonderful

person, a grand person for sure, but

 

never now to be ever the person who’s

healthy and wealthy in every respect

for the new I want to become.

 

 

And in this you have replicated, like cancerous

gene, the behaviours of my strife: good in

every respect except when it comes

 

to dealing with me, and loving with me

and being

with me and having

 

with me.

And once I considered myself common

denominator, and once maybe it was true.

 

But now when I look around me I see

so many people who forgot an otherwise easy

generosity: who managed only to fear me

 

even when I intended no harm nor

unpleasantness

to anyone.

 

And so you and my strife are one of a pod:

both control freakery and

drama queenery

 

the tools you have used to confuse and

bemuse me for decades, long sensed.

And the bravery of your cowardice

 

knowing really no limits; knowing

really no ways of restricting nor

constricting, nor reducing with any kindness

at all.

 

And all I have left to say in this part, which

today brings to you and me and the world

which refuses

 

to see too much, is how

sad I am truly to have lost broken heart

to two women who may have

 

wanted my best, but thoroughly were

unable to love me with justice:

thoroughly were unable to be more

 

than one of a rather dreadful, casual unkind.

So don’t mind me any else: there is

little left to do.  I wish

 

so very much I could love you both

as two: and whilst never shall

I stop striving to pay back the debt

 

of financial justice to the strife I have

hurt so or-fully much, I see this day so clearly

that my duty to myself

 

lies with other people and futures; with

strange people and good

people and men and women of genial

 

ingenuities, so

various that right now I cannot explain

where they will lead more, not to whom

 

outside the womb which has been

my life to date.

To date, to date, to date another.

 

Something I never

ever

contemplate-

 

d.

 

And it’s curious how now I can change this focus:

curious how now our folkus is

different: curious how now our now

 

begins to separate: curious how now

the terror and joy and wonder of

freedoms just starts to kickstart my soul-

 

[s].

And even when people I’m sure could be

friends do ignore my messages and

 

communications multiple, I now realise that

life is littered with confusions: I

realise how whys be often ignored by

 

the wise-

[st].

 

So to summarise

with clarity, even if not with

the wisdom I would obviously prefer:

 

first to M, your material future will be my number one

goal; then to K, our past no longer is this me nor my

soul; whilst to C, I still desire to see you

 

so much again: whether we do ever or not is

your move quite clearly;

and then ultimately, finally to “dear old T”, who once

 

possessed the very most

love which brothers did ever share, my doorstep

 

you’ll never darken

in life more

again.

 

Sometimes sands’ markers are foundations

which never do shift.

Sometimes, it’s so true, yes

 

it is.

 

Leave a reply:

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s