A poem: Time Until

The first was a tragedy

I unintentionally or intentionally killed a man

And heard for years he remained heavily unable

As I, wading through, gathering up, and trying to hold together

Too many pieces of a false self, of a false, weak, world

Unable to know anything about love


The second was less tragic, and smaller

Hurt is easier to hold than hurting

Still weak, my weakness spread

Consuming me, consuming him

And in the end my weakness won

Proving stronger


The third was the smallest

Though a nobler failure

I tried, and in trying saw myself

That weak, needing, and empty part of myself, in him

And I began, finally, to understand.


Then this

This fourth and perfect time

The first, really

And last

I realize it was never love I was searching for

Or fighting toward

But us

And all the time and love and pain before

Was my deepest self, my strongest self

Struggling to find


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