“… [when] the cap doesn’t [quite] fit …”

It ain’t quite writ[e],

you’re right.

It doesn’t quite fi[gh]t,

you write.

It feels quite strange,

atop a head which

thinks too much

and lives too little.

But even in its strangeness,

it kinda – and kinder than I 

ever sought! –

sits gently and begins to

caress the burning cells

that grey the whirled,

with their solds 

and boughts.

And so it’s finally OK:

I begin to love 

the twirled of different 

souls, and thus am quite 

able to se[a]e,

quite clear, no waters broken

nor muddied:

.ie, the true nature of 

this reality.

I shall always love you for the 

freedom you

bestowed me:

and a grand gift of your 

real love 

it 

was.

But just because I want 

you 

gives me no right over how two should be.

And in your hurting silence you have 

clearly, sincerely spoken:

and I am bewitched now by how this truth

escaped me.

Apologies fulsome, and sad and

total then: and when 

you one day have the opportunity 

to recover your certainty,

think of me better than I do deserve 

to be: I am, after all,

only human.

And so are you …

no 

force.




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