Less than me / Dear C / You (yourself) / My once upon a time*

I realise 

now

how you needed me far less

than 

I did need you; or 

maybe that 

was different-

like.

And in fact, 

for this thing I call [my 

self], 

you don’t need me – you never 

did – at all.

I was foolish to think 

parallel; to 

believe 

you might love 

this 

man 

as old as your 

father equally is: 

this

man (I mean me!), in many ways

much uglier 

still than any

woman of youth 

should fair expect of an 

existence 

other-

wise beautiful.

But it’s all right, dear C; I’ve got 

well over

my idiocy today.

In the research I have 

commenced, I have found 

new life to thrive:

no longer do I find myself wanting 

to force you 

this some

where you simply 

don’t 

care to

become.

My wife will 

be now

my life of thought: this ever so 

a-

MA-

zinnnggggggg being of 

fun and 

dance

that becomes an academia 

so 

wonderfully unsound!

And thus

this other 

we call this love it

self 

will slip slowly down that 

stream of

the reams of b[r]ooks 

I already [w]rote

in  praise of

your

name; me, never the

same as

any other man, and yet

simultaneously pre-

dictable  

as any other

was.

And then never, dear C, 

will I not love you: 

this fine you;

this dear you;

this my once upon a time 

you.

But I do now

accept 

I finally can rhyme this living 

of mine

without you having 

to be 

my ride!

* And don’t get me wrong: 

it’s not that I choose to;

only that I 

now 

accept your choice …

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