I know I cannot have you
(even though I did).

I know that seasons change
and people die.

I know that we spend much of our lives
fighting against such things.

I know that certainty is taxing
when it does not favor you.

I know that knowing becomes a sacrifice
when the truth is out for blood.

It takes time to know these things.
It takes many walks through tall grass
brimming with burred burdens.

Thick skin—
I've been told that I need it. Otherwise,
I'll be painfully privy to the stings of a reality
that remains inconvenient.

Otherwise, I will look at you
(or rather, the image of you)
and feel pain. Otherwise,
I will feel that tug on my lungs—

the collapse of the hope I built so carefully
on the foundations of so carelessly
loving you
back when time and space allowed.

Back when it was easy.
Back when I could have you—
back when I did.

Sustaining such carelessness only ushers in
wicked knells of realization—the weight
of infatuation in wait, stretched thin by miles
untraveled and unseen.

Circumstance becomes unsightly—obscene
when what I know escapes its chains.

So, I refrain from the tightening tether,
skin tanned, but far from leather—
I attempt to clear the ledger and forget my winnings.

I drown all that we took in my misgivings,
now that we're living
where prices rise and bills come due.

I say I know I cannot have you
because it haunts me that I do.