To Margie, Who Doesn’t Really Give A Shit

What hurts is that I think of you after many empty times.
A bitter welling soaks fresh resentments into memories
of a contentment never relearned without you.

What hurts is that I cannot remember your face.
When passing in the tide of city urgency I doubt I’d
know you, though constantly I look.

What hurts is that I miss you. When hours collect
in the small and dark of day I write words of re-union
conversations, dialogs of doubtful veracity which
open a window of wonder and pitiful yearnings.
These I hope never to use, but still I make them up.

What hurts is that you don’t seem to care.
The grown man doesn’t cry anymore,
Instead the belly eats of itself with a shoddy-built
hope that finds a refuge by my ribs. Anchored in
place with a glue of wistfulness, it clings mightily.
And still the letters have gone to empty silence.

What hurts is that you asked me to love you. My
last protector, the off-side stance, melted in trust.
Folded in tender arms I crumbled. Never did I fear
Eventual loss until betrayal was unveiled.

Now unto the last days...

The walls are down, the gates are breached, and the
Winds scatter the grain into the fields.

What hurts is that I still want you.

~Stuart Andrew Marshall Tanner~