
As an Old Woman
I hear your words. I understand
the pain you feel—
though understanding is not the same as knowing.
Hearing and knowing are two different things.
I am not you.
I will never truly know.
I see your doubts and fears—
your confusion,
your tears.
I answer with my own:
my own tears and confusion,
my own fears and doubts—
not yours.
You say you love me,
but love is hard to feel
when trust between us
does not feel real.
I appreciate your apology,
your regret.
It tells me
you do not wish to forget.
But memory is unreliable.
Truth shifts with perspective—
a gathering of lived moments.
Still, the bond we share,
the love between us—
I believe you care.
I believe it because I choose to,
and because
I know that I care.
Let us try to build trust again,
to mend the bond
we both know is torn.
Yet truthfully,
I do not know how.
And neither do you.
So we pass through
the quiet rituals—
the practiced niceties.
We say we will speak openly,
that truth will strengthen love
and make it new.
But I know
that will never happen.
We love each other
just enough.
Let us not risk
the pain…

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