The Wound

I’m opening it up and crawling back in.

The wound, I mean.

I can tell, because I thought of you today, and

five minutes later I saw you

on the street,

and I’ve been seeing a therapist,

and this is what I need to do, I know,

and then

I saw you today.

And isn’t that an omen?

Seeing you again makes me wonder

(I did so love you)

about all our unkindnesses –

lies and secrets

and betrayals -

committed in the name of love. Was it love? And

what possessed us? What beast?

Two reasonable people by any other measure -

but there you were, with your need for

adoring masses of women,

and me, compelled to stay

and rail against

that truth,

and beg for understanding

(I have a wound, don’t you see?)

But what reason does the heart need,

when it comes to such things? When it comes to being seen?

So, I am opening it up. And crawling back in.