Men let waves of grief engulf them,
hold their breaths until they pass,
surface, and swim on.
Wallowing or drowning is not an option,
men don’t float like spume,
we’re savages raging against whitewash,
but we’re utterly fragile beneath it all,
asking ourselves forever if we’re enough.
What you don’t get to hear is the breaths we hold,
the heartbeats we waste,
the anxiety we covet,
hoping,
we provide enough,
we love enough,
we see enough,
we do enough,
and if we are enough,
then it’s all worth it,
if we die before our anticipated time.
W.E.
An ode to dad, who constantly gave of himself until his last breath!
lonerloaner 