Love, imperfect, stillborn
to have been but not to be.
We ended it in a coffee shop,
how cruel that was of me.
An old love had resurfaced,
but who had the better claim?
Should I go back to she who left,
or, with the other, remain?
There are no perfect answers
in life, in love, in time.
My children followed from my choice;
sweet hostages to time.
If I were of two bodies
as I was then of two minds
only then could I refuse
and not leave one behind.
My past has been imperfect,
I'd hesitate to live it twice.
Yet all I'd ever hoped I'd be
flows from my choice that night