She averts her eyes to sympathize,
perhaps not to see the pain,
and he, in glaring self-recrimination,
suffers the damnation of her decisive suppression,
the unspoken words of endings,
when mistakes are not forgotten,
unforgiven in their affective dire waste.
Like waves of self-loathing,
the silence did bare the truth,
nothing he could say could sway her,
could dissuade her decision or soothe,
just an awkward still pause,
oozing blood and desperation,
and in the spill, no compensation.
Eyes filled with tears, both sat in time’s relent,
even the breeze held off,
as if to respect the malaise,
and in that squirming flooded moment
he had the foresight to speak,
not for plea or consideration but relief,
as he quietly said goodbye.
The words echoed in both minds,
filled the sky and turned it grey,
and it struck her, the finality,
what she was doing, what she pledged,
and sobbing could not be withheld,
a love so long in its last breath,
she watched him rise and walk away, bereft.
Love’s doors open and close,
for we are inept, imperfect beings,
and love’s ideal the hardest to accept and live by,
for it demands our surrender, our selfless acts,
and adoration that sees no shadow,
just an acceptance of truth,
and embracing of a soul, complete.
Many loves have passed me by,
so deeply felt the soul of each awry
in life’s long road, but one thing I know,
love never really dies,
it just no longer fits into our lives
as we change and evolve,
but its glow remains, those blissful memories,
when love is the center of life.
Tony DeLorger © 2018
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