Bitter Season

Everything has its season
and the most transient of blooms
can have roots that go deep,
seemingly dormant,
until ripped from the earth.

Then they bleed.

Love is irrational,

caring nothing for the needs
of hours,
or days,
or proximity,
which is just another word
for the space that comes between

and breaks us apart.

In a single wild bright moment
I thought I could have it all,
but soon came reason
and bitter truth:
there was more room in my heart
than in my life.

Whether I shed another tear,
or throw a tantrum like a child,
nothing past will change.
So I choke back the lump in my throat,
gasp for air,
and curse Ananke
that she left me at my mirror
with my thousand salves and emollients,
preserving what’s left of youth
for a reunion that will never come.

And now the mandate to myself:
that I should write this down,
lest I fritter away the rest
of an uncertain strand.
For when my tears are spent
and my books are filled,
there will still be much to do,
and I must find my own way
through the dregs

of my illusions.

This was written for Sunday's Whirligig and M.A. (sixth in a series)