We were almost something.
And in many ways that is worse
Than being nothing at all.
Or, equally, being something and then
One rainy day, just hitting a wall.
It is in between, and that is why it hurts.
It hurts because I told you everything,
And you said you understood and
I believed you. I trusted you with my pain,
But also with my laughter, thinking,
Perhaps naively, that you felt the same.
I guess I’ll never know.
You weren’t ready to be open in return.
Unprepared, perhaps, to learn that perfect
Does not exist. That it’s okay to leave the pieces
Of a plate broken, sharp-edged, on the floor –
Or sweep them up the best you can and try
To stick them back together with magic glue,
Though we both know that me and you
Will never be quite the same.
It hurts because all I can do, as I wait for
Your name to appear on my phone,
And wake up and go to sleep alone,
With the cold parts of the sheets, that
We both said we liked, to myself is wonder –
What if? What if we’d been braver, older, wiser?
But maybe that is futile.
And maybe magic glue can’t fix those deeper cracks,
Which were surely there several Springs ago
As we waited for our train at the edge of the tracks.
In truth, I just wish someone would tell me whether
To wait for you, or quietly sweep up the broken pieces
And put them in the bin.