The Promises

So easy to forget all the promises
we made to ourselves in secret rooms,
in silent places: I’m sorry I pushed
you to remember, to recollect a failure,
as if you hadn’t succeeded or fulfilled
a goal you always said you would.

Your face showed a painful memory:
a moment I caught you bringing-up again,
a childlike image of heroism or idolatry
you haven’t yet accomplished, nor perhaps will.

The child in us lives longer than our dreams.


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