the inevitable

*forty-one

i cringe at your rough exterior
my eyes flit to and from your edges
they jut out unnaturally
i tell myself to turn a blind eye.
i find myself draping you in gold warmth
in a forgiving blanket of feeling,
woven from my own sorrows.
i cover you in fidelity and security
a mirage of what i desire myself.
am i wrong to show you an idyll scenario i wish myself to be in?
i've melted your edges and made you new in the shiny newness of love
i've spun the last of my golden thread, and those ever familiar edges jut out from my own side.
they're hideous.
am i stuck in an evanescent cycle of humility?
it will always bewilder me
how what i give is all i ask.
i trace back the incredible lines of my steps and wonder how my life trajectory could have changed
if i had stayed blind.
is to love enough when you yourself compromise your capability to be loved?
i place flowers on my grave
and mourn for myself
in all my emptiness.