for my own almost other lover
Regardless of how I cut and pull and prune, it takes root, sprouts, flowers: a beautiful bloom that I want to touch and smell and taste.
Regardless of how I cut and pull and prune, it takes root, sprouts, flowers: a beautiful bloom that I want to touch and smell and taste.
Next to it is one bitter and deadly; I need to let it die. When I feed your sweet, unassuming flower, I inevitably nourish its poisonous neighbor: the anger I hold for all the wrongs he's done to me.
I need to tend to my family, not to my resentments and desires. Even when you reside patiently and respectfully in my periphery, I nurse a passion that conflicts with my reality. I need to let it die.
In the beauty of spring I toil to plow my rocky Folsom soil with exhausting solidarity.
Dirt under my fingernails, sweat and dust mingling on my skin, I reach for a goodbye. I need to let it die.
