The Reconstructed

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.