subtext

I should spit out the bitterness,

instead of savoring as if

an unfolding flower;

but I don’t, and I do

until bile rises to coat

those I love with a patina

breathing death into the earth.

Yet, how does one decide

what’s bitter, what’s not needed

to carry the day forward?

We all cleave to what should be

cleaved away, out of habit,

out of nostalgia for memory

we are unsure occurred,

out of hope for a significance

sweeter than the life we live.