is the saddest word
in every language
They say
In every dialect.
You haven’t mourned yet,
my beloved
You haven’t sent away the space
between lust and
separation
and denial
Your lungs
furtive and blunt
You make your way through the distance
But you don’t look back
You don’t flash your grace
To him
but to everyone else
in evil sympathy
to break the free will
to resent the spirit
to calm the longing
like a garden flower in July
picked by a wrong lover.
photo via Aaron Feaver
