Precise Between

And once you’ve finished

drying yourself out, take

stock of what truths

you find yourself shouting

to strangers in bathrooms

hoping that someone

will tell you you’re real.

Maybe the end has already

come; dishonesty nothing

more than aftershocks.

I won’t feel guilty for loving

I won’t feel guilty for loving

I won’t feel guilty for loving

even after they’ve left.

We know someone was here

because we feel the without

when they go. Can they see

our regrets wafting towards

the skies? Shame, a smog

undeniable rancor.

The only stench I can stand

is self-denial, it’s resourcefulness

never ceases to amaze. Just

as you made me wonder if all

that’s meant to be is the end.

I won’t wish you were here

I’ll wish I was there, off in the

ether, the precise between,

go they say, go! and fast

rip out of the hands that

don't know how to let go.

Did you think of me more

or less before I told you

I loved you?