Letting go

Poetry is emotion subtly moving through my psyche.

Day is done. Nox eternum.
It is a constant chill the blows on my wet, naked soul.
No cry, no release,
No cathartic cataract tumbling from on high
to heal and wash away the memories...

...Her sun-blonded hair draping across my chest;
Her body slowly heaving on top of me...

There are things that I can never wash away.

The stain of love and regret. Of wishing
two things at once diametrically opposed.
They say that time heals all things.
That is hard to believe for an obsessive mind in love.
In love, maybe not with a person so much any more,
but an ideal.
A commingling of ought and is. (Am I not good enough?)

There are ways to break this circadian yoke, so I hear.
But they may break me in the process.
There are boundaries I just cannot cross by myself.
Standing up for me...Being me around people I do not know.

Being able to let go.