Give or Take
(one last poem, on the eve of thirty-two years of loving you)
Give or Take
Wheels stripped, wings clipped,
Not because you didn't care,
But rather because I thought, and you agreed, you simply needed them more.
"I'm sorry I broke your heart," You said. — “I know,” I replied, “so am I.”
“And I'm sorry I couldn't love you more.” — “I know,” I replied, “so am I.”
“But here’s the thing,” I said. — (as you turned to walk away):
Every last drop of water, I shared (when I was thirsty, too),
Every last bit of nourishment, I offered (when I was hungry, too),
Every last breath of air, I gave (when I was drowning, too),
I did so willingly (because I wanted to save you, too).
Not because you didn't love me (because I know, in your own way, you still do),
But rather because I learned to love you (more than you could love you).
Since, I’ve also learned, there's privilege in having more to give than others do,
Before I have nothing left to give, I offer this blessing to you:
May you learn to accept the gifts you’ve been given, and may you learn to love you, too.
Because that’s all I ever wanted for you anyway.