after years of ministrations,
mimicry of empathy, empty sympathy,
simple solaces and asymmetric affections,
aching hearts, hurt, horror,
hoping for your healing,
hearing whispered worries, and
wishing an iota of insight on your indulgent identity
inserts itself into your mind,
i muse:
maybe my myopic love was lacking
all that’s left of it is lethargy.
i can’t leave,
lest you come undone and decimate what little direction you’ve divined
and die, suicide, someone somewhere somehow
staining my conscience.
cordial conversation continues— a commitment i’ve conceded to

i am in spite of you
i am because of you
you made me who i am
i love what i’ve become
so i guess i love you, too