the grief has become crippling.
it came years later
when there was no longer any guard.
it is not always there,
but day by day,
it comes more often
and for longer.

the grief is crushing.
at times I do want to go on, forward.
at times I want to go back.
my confused heart beats that rhythm throughout the lonely nights.
let me go back.
oh take me back.
let then be now once more.

the grief is humiliating.
it refuses poetry and other forms of surgery.
it rises and accuses without conscience,
without concern.
oh my love,
oh my loves,
take me back.

there is a man
always on the verge of a great event;
a revelation,
a revolution,
a rebirth.
He wastes years swinging from confession
to repentance and back again.
religiously pursuing his fresh start,
and so, in this pathetic way,
he will never change.

I fear I am that man.
Because I stand on a corner of a street in San Francisco
and call for Shreya.
Because I shiver at a bar in Reykjavik and wait for Marianne.
Because I tear through the rainforest and rebel camps
hunting for an Anna who never was.
Because I keep these records, and burn these records,
and turn them into books and songs.
Because I feel mostly composed of grief,
and spend my days lamenting
petty misfortunes.
Because I am a dog,
and a wolf,
and fangless lamb.
Because I am sorry,
and self-obsessed,
and powerful,
and lost.

I want to go back.