For Caitlin: may he be but a bitter line in a memoir otherwise filled with love and beauty
I thought that someday I'd be strong,
I thought that I'd be fine,
but someday can't come soon enough
when all you have is time.
It's funny, though you've won the battle,
I will win the war;
for though you were my everything,
another will be more.
You're something less than human
yet, you think you're far above.
You, my friend, are lonely:
incapable of love.
Of myself I make a fool;
lose composure, lose my pride,
but you have lost much more than that
you're empty deep inside.
So next time cavalries should meet
I will not surrender or retreat.
I will look you in the eyes
and sweetly will I say,
"I wish you all which you deserve
and have a pleasant day."
For you'll deserve whatever comes,
whatever your life brings:
You will get your fire
and I will get my wings.
And maybe I'm still hurting;
still fragile and afraid,
but none of that can be as bad
as the bed, yourself, you've made.