20. We view our limits

Reality is a poor substitute for fairy tales:
I am always laughing,
in the same red shirt,
as if I was always cast to play the same victim,
Over, over, over.

Crueller to mourn the unknown,
not having a body to bury.
It’s a luxury to grieve –
but I cry for my unborn, my unrequited –

Spiders do not have the time
to remember
before they are
massacred.

There is no ending
but I – must be thankful.
Thankful for having met you,
for having let you go,
for carrying on with this
hapless play,
for living.