In the end,
there is nothing left to scrape or pick at,
no detritus,
empty apple crates or
discarded cores.
Yet time unwinds without prejudice
and so your fruit puckered
and wilted,
the ages wearing on your
wounded pride,
you an old woman sooner than later,
never one for apologies or regrets
and certainly not now.
But I would have loved you anyway,
in spite of the lava you flung,
the fumes you made me suck
and the picture windows you shattered.
I would have loved you
if you’d just once said
you needed me.
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