The only time we ever talked about love
Was the month following my heartbreak
Around Thanksgiving of my 24th year.
I did not think I could keep going quietly, honestly
And you did not have much advice to give.
In the wake of that winter you visited once
And I had very little left to run on.
What followed was a decade
Of no progressing news of romance.
I never even really mentioned to you my relationships
because I was ashamed of myself.
At my age you had one child
And did not necessarily want me, who was to come, 4 years later.
Maybe not so much me, as want the whole packaged
Uncharmed American dream.
A wife and two kids did not mean you made something.
And for me I’m teetering on the precipice
Of whether or not I can make something
I’d ask you now:
How do you configure the controls of love?
Is romance something you nurtured?
Did you fall in with the same fervor in which you fell out?
How do you make time for cherishing and being cherished?
I don’t know if you would have offered answers.
I should have given you the chance though, no?
Ultimately, I was just afraid these questions would scare you
Or worse yet it would sadden you
That the thoughts that gnaw at the deep caverns of my soul
Would continue to eat me alive
leaving me unable to exist contentedly enough to be happy for a moment.