fold along dotted line
The letter that says "no thanks." The call that doesn't come. The roast
never admired for its long, slow braise. The floor, swept clean,
then marked too soon by an onslaught of boots. The argument that ripples
long after its conclusion. The art that never manages to make it on the page.
We tell ourselves to break our grip, move on, let go of the outcome we'd fashioned
in the warm cocoon of our best-case scenarios. We're told there are better fish to fry,
to climb back on the horse, keep tossing our hat into the ring, and other metaphors
which fall - let's say it - far too flat. Because here we are, rattled and heart-sore,
bent at the seams in strange and unkempt angles, feeling the sharpness of each crease,
hungrier for tenderness than release.