So much of what we live goes on inside
The diaries of grief, the tongue-tied aches
Of unacknowledged love are no less real
For having passed unsaid What we conceal
Is always more than what we dare confide
Think of the letters that we write our dead
– Dana Gioia
Haven’t t I been here before? The inadequacies, the comparisons, the green-eyed monster the heart stirs, the wondering, the uncertainties, the questions, the thoughts the mind churns out, the past I can never twist, the future I cannot know, the way reality works which I still do not know how to reconcile.
Round and round and now I return to this familiar place.
I am afraid, of what lies ahead due to the past, so tell me how do I —