I wish it didn’t sting

when rejection tears apart 

what I’ve poured my heart into, 

hidden emotions or fragments thereof 

painting scenes that tiptoe quietly 

or outright screams. 

 

I wish it didn’t sting

when he doesn’t think much of me,

but rather holds a love 

kept at a distance that silently breaks 

both of us apart.

 

I wish it didn’t sting

when correspondence stops like

a drought after the flood,

after love cascaded faithfully

to comply with the dream.

 

I wish it didn’t sting

when I hear his poetry;

the voice that gets to the depth of me.

And I realize all those lustful moments

and longing nights have ceased.

 

I wish it didn’t sting

when my daughter looks to me 

for answers. Her big eyes searching

for meaning and I come up empty;

I’ve got nothing.

 

I wish it didn’t sting,

when all I have

is nothing.