I Do Not See What You See
In epic self-loathing
I let the phone ring, knowing
how you interpret silence
but hope for a psychic storm to send
respect from a thoughtless martyr across
30 miles of invisible space.
This contradiction believes
in hope but bears none;
thought doing right by you was
as simple as words (spoken,
perhaps, in haste but not insincerity)
when every step forward was
impulsive, marred by guilt
for a twice-lost picture of a life
I never really lived.
Flawed, perceptibly,
and unable to believe that
there is grace in weakness
when it stays my feet in time
as you move...
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