The woman speaks
of the futility of hope —
the necessity of
some substitute
that cannot so easily
be lost.

I wait for the clock
to sanction correspondence.
But then
just can’t bring
myself to it.
How you hurt,
without knowing you hurt.

Watch the moths
beat their wings
against the glass.
And wait.
And wait.
And wait.

Should turn them away.
Should turn off the lights.
Should find my pillow,
and maybe sleep.
But wait.
And wait.
And pray for the sense
to turn away
from this suspense.

Because she was right.
To hope is useless.
Wiser to take up these weapons,
assume the warrior’s pose.
Hope is useless.
And waiting, pointless.

And if you can remember
to forget,
perhaps someday
you might forget
to remember.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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