Poets rarely seem to have happy lives

Sometimes you have a good night. Not great. Not revealing. Just good enough.

And on these nights, I think. I think, if I died, it would be enough. Not good. Not right. But enough, I think.

Morgan is long gone. Even her faintest echos are lost to me.
All who I’ve loved have gone or walked into their own futures.
And while I love my friends, you can’t live for them.
They have their own lives. No matter how much you love them. No matter how much you need someone to hold you in the silence.

Enough. Enough now.

Post script
I’ll take no action. Fear of the horizon and hope for what might be, will always call to me.

But really, without that spark of music, that waking, that breathe that is love. Without…

Find joy in what you have. Best I can do is ready.

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