Every bit of love and joy leaves the check
on our table, to be paid for in large bills
a currency of grief.
A lifetime of revolving debt.
Every moment of helplessness is
balanced by a scene in which
we reluctantly play god, all the while
wishing we could go back
to being the understudy.
The entire play is off book.
Pity this sensitive human heart,
so easily moved,
feeling first love and last goodbye
with equal intensity.
How could something this fragile be made
for everyday use?
I don’t recall agreeing to this.
Are we to be spared nothing, then?
Is it absolutely imperative we feel it all,
in all its exquisite sharpness;
in all its aching stillness;
in all its baffling contradiction;
in all its unanswered and unanswerable questions;
and feel grateful?
Can anyone tell me how?