We like to write poems about loss, being the universal experience.
I have written lines of prose, or romantic rumblings
about loss marked out in decay and gravestones.
These quantifiable losses that break our hearts
but briefly, until the wounds scab over and we continue.
Only occasionally, rocked by drink or loneliness,
picking at the scabs and taking perverse pleasure in briefly revisiting our grief.
This losing unites us; we sing with it and embrace each other
with understanding, there are many people we would like to hold again.
But our lost dreams are silent, witnesses to weakness,
these I wish moments, these growing up forgets
disguised as responsibility and circumstance.
Once upon a once upon a time, when we believed in magic
we could be anything but what we became.