You were twenty-three when we met, rebel of unrefined rhetoric.
I was twenty-six, what a perfect age to be. Idealism wasn’t dead and I could still make you love me for all these ideas which had yet to erode the fantasy.
You were twenty-five when I proposed, wearing plainclothes in a parking lot, where I once asked you for a smoke and hoped you’d nod, but didn’t expect such conversation.
I was twenty-eight and a fortnight when I asked your father, the warmest that relationship ever got.
Because we bonded over daughters,
I tried to be what I was not.
Imagined family and futures,
not this animosity, but then,
there were fewer signs.
Epiphanies haunt me in kind; there is no more normal than there ever was strange, and beautiful things begin the way they eventually wane; as products of their time.
Inevitability has a shelf life, yet this expiry…
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