Form: Epistle

I’m in that lonely place again, my love, making the choices I don’t want to make that leave my senses feeling wrecked and hopeless while desperately seeking a shard of doubt to change my mind. Now the hours of the owl lay in front of me, my body shattered but fighting back as my fingers tip-tap on the keys forming the words of making a living. Each paragraph and verse a step in successful healing, this I know, yet I feel I am failing; failing you; failing us.

Again I remind myself if my body is broken I am no use to you. If I am sleeping how do I bring you comfort and if I am awake while you sleep what use am I to you then? But still these are choices I don’t want to make as I ask the questions of my self when knowing the answer before the question is asked. Erring on the side of caution, I don’t doubt the choices are right until my imaginings here the doubt in your voice, doubt in my decisions or doubt in me, I don’t know which.

And here in the darkness, alone, my heart breaks.


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