i weep not in longing but
remembrance.
i remember with an ache for cherished joys.
i remember with an ache over former wounds.

those wounds have healed.
those wounds have not yet healed.

and i live in between.

who will someday read these lines?
who will somehow heal these wounds?
it is no mystery, but feels a mystery still.

it is no mystery,
and in this surety I will long remain.