On the things you cannot change

I still feel you like a wound in my throat
It is probably a lump
A distraction
A list of all the things I would explain to you if it would ever matter.

Because it doesn’t, this is just a lump.
I am sick with a sadness that feels like grief for something I hadn’t found yet,
A preview grief that fills all the white noise with a quality of color;
I almost want to look.

You were the earth that warmed my roots,
You now who breezes through my hair like secrets I don’t want to tell,
You are the soft smell that lingers from my youth.

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