Because it moves on
and lament for something lost is whining.
I don’t want to be that beggar-pleader;
I’ll stick to being open to the comeround when it happens
Pathetic, yes, I’ve never not been thought of as such.
I have trouble moving on.
And I even feel bad for the people trying to move me on
With their pointed hurts, ignoring of what I know is inside them, the suppression of good feelings in favour of current happinesses.
A strong man could take it better than I, the hints not biting so hard, maybe even angry-making, world-ending.
But I understand, and that is my weakness; always I get the point of view of the other
Sometimes too late, but I accept it
And in time forgive it.
Oh to be strong in conviction.