Too New And Not For You

The grief of it
I'm almost done,
working through it, but what of the real work,
well after dark, I must realize I am only human,
and the midnight oil I have left is ...
... not for you.

And yet, I kick myself,
tonight, the next day at dawn, and on
into each week that is brave enough to follow,
feeling a life should be slightly more productive,
least ways than this, with all I have to show ...
... not for you.

I'm stopping short
of any preparations
for tomorrow or the next day,
faltering, flailing, over-killed, still unable to tell
if that's me, or what's left of me which is ...
... not for you.

Despite the growth
beyond the pain, there remains
this awful fact of me, forcing myself
without the ability to tell if I'm unbecoming
or becoming real, real clear, inasmuch as I am ...
... not for you.

For all intent
and painful purposes, all the conversations
heading south, we became weary of discussing
what it looked like versus what it really was
and now, all the love and medicine is ...
... not for you.

Beyond this grief,
I cannot travel back over time,
my wounds healed by secondary intent
on the verge of weeping at the swelling sites
this distance I've traveled is too new and ...
... not for you.