Things are slipping,
sliding,
careening,
inevitably out of my control.
When did the ropes I tied so carefully
begin to
fray?
When did the hands that held everything
begin to
fatigue?
Were there hints;
subtle looks and comments that
shot past my naive senses?
There must have been.
Because now he's slipping,
sliding,
walking
out of my grasp.
Leaving.
The unspoken reality that pierces a
hole in me no amount of
faked enthusiasm can repair.
Intentions are good,
minds are innocent,
but tensions are high.
I want the best for both,
but only think of one.
It's rough.
Like the proverbial sand I'm
trying to stop from escaping
my grip,
but not as rough as realizing
*there's nothing I can do