A real poem for my waúní, finally.

I read something this morning
That you wrote,
in a notebook last summer
That I now use for work.

What I read hurt.
Because it made me see,
with new clarity,
into our recent history.

A scene, set,
With a beautiful young woman.
Brimming with life, adventure and vitality,
Yearning for the wild,
With kindness,
Compassion,
and hilarity.

And a boy lying next to sí.
Distracted by his own internal,
obsessive-fantasies.
Of other worlds,
Private-realities.

All the while neglecting,
to tend to the magic next to sé.

Caught up in some perverse form,
Of single-player fantasy.
Content to play with his own,
Prickly thoughts.
Rather than let them go,
For the sake of playing,
With the woman he loved.

My heart removes its gloves.
And with weaponry of love rises up.
When I think of all those lust-less moments,
That you so graciously withstood.
For the sake of that idiot
and his rickety-make-believe-boat.

Seeking out, new oceans of notions,
All the while, sailing away from Tír an nÓg.
And his little raft finally sunk,
when sí found the stability,
To tell him, it’s done.

And we light a candle for this silly son.
Saying prayers,
for the single-player-tale he spun.

And I am so grateful,
That you had the courage,
To call it like it is.
To pop that bubble
Of his inattentiveness.
Because I was slowly drowning,
Under the rudder of his carelessness.

And you deserve better than this.

So let the fishermans garden bare white flowers,
As he and me,
An fir agus an buachaillí,
roll under the rough seas,
Of accountability.

And what will be, will be.
Croí álainn.

There are no guarantees.
Save the light that shines,
infinitely.

Carrying a whispering,
Through the murmurs of the mourning,
with no fanfare,
or forcing.
A new stór in the skies
a-yawning.

Let him do his thawing.