not-grasping

To wake is to struggle —
the dream,
tenacious.

Gamboling.

Lonesome.

Boots in mud.

And you never could learn to let go.

Could you give me a hand up?

Not to pretend
that anything comes of it
outside of what was meant.

There was the wanting,
one way,
but then the wanting changed.

And he said it, first:
I wanted to be your friend.

But there was the how.

You could not find it.
I could not find it.
And so easy to let be.

So here is the myth,
the well,
the anchor —

to soothe,
to quench
or to keep.

And my hands grow tired of holding.

Maybe that is all
she ever meant.

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About Emily

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

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