I told you to be patient/ I told you to be fine/ I told you to be balanced/ I told you to be kind/ Now all your love is wasted?/ Then who the hell was I?/ Now I'm breaking at the britches/ And at the end of all your lines/ Who will love you?/ Who will fight?/ Who will fall far behind?
I feel your hurt, I think it hums between us or hovers like breath. Osmosis between our bodies, I suppose, permeable brief monuments that they are. How many things close to prayer have been whispered silently for you, earnestly, by this eternal skeptic! I'm amazed at how much pain this causes me; two calendar pages, a few handfuls of weeks, the first Wednesday of November - all just foreign-sounding words that aren't proportionate to what I feel for you. You're still all tore up, though, and need to make your own happiness before you can even begin to worry about anyone else's. What a sweet mess you are.
