Happiest.

-
She was happiest without me -
her somber silhouette somehow
served to cement that I see
only what I was allowed to.
And all I was allowed to,
were expressions of "almost"
                                  and "maybe".
          My thoughts dwell
and at some moments, swell
at the idea that there may
still be affection in the eaves.
                        But I deceive myself,
as it is through markedly unsaid
conversation that bring to light
the truth that haunts my nights:
it was never real.
And it never will be.
She is, after all,
happiest without me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lots of book-ends sort of poems lately. I think. Not sure. I'll get back to you on that.

Cheers!

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