I tried my best. I did
what I could, she says,
and my heart breaks.
I want to hold her and tell
her that everything will be
okay, that we’ll settle down
in a small cottage nestled
in the mountains overlooking
a verdant valley with a
friendly golden retriever
named Buddy. But everything
crumbles in the end,
life becomes shadow
and viridescent trees,
ashen ghosts, skulking spectres
ashamed of what they’ve become,
and age melts into sorrowed age
dulling everything until all that’s
left is an echoing sob from
the deepest recesses of the soul,
begging for validation
from anyone who’s willing
to pause and give a damn,
say, I appreciate you.
So I stroke her hair and
agree that she did her best
and tell her she’s capable of
much more, despite the chaos
within burning away traces of
selflessness, my conscience
darting back and forth like
a manic compass, unable to get
its bearings, reprimanding me for
my lack of everything,
and the weltschmerz bleaching
all the roles I’ve played or
imagined I’ve played in life —
hero, villain, intelligent man, fool,
saint, sinner, madman,
kind man —
until I know I’m there for
her, but not in a way I should
be or one she deserves.
Ordinary Person 
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