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 miss them when

they’re gone. Where do all

the missed ones go? Can they

see our regrets wafting towards

the skies, shame as smog and

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,

the place where people like you

go because none of us are ready

to let go. Did you think of me

more or less before you died?

Did I ever tell you I love you?

Can you hear me if I say it now?