wander to the bench where i carved my sentiment
my knuckles write as i held that grudge and pen
to abandon would be too simple, it would not be right
the only logical way was to endure and suffer and cry and yearn
until the sobs subsided and a poetry book chided
my sullen face and posture
forgiveness was a target and the arrow kept slipping out of my hands
and it is still not on the mark
it is on the outskirts of "time heals all wounds"
and further, much further, from the petrified sadness of it
the words i engraved and dug into the wood
are ones i said i always would,
"he lives, he loves"
and he always has

-cj