Untitled (For an Old Poet, II)

I am often
losing sight
of us,
as much as it pains to admit me so;
whether this is merely a
symptom
of being a stranger
in a strange land
or something far less
temporary
I do not know—
we never did take the bar
or learn how to read a jury.

Instead,
I am bare
like the lowest of the spring tides
of the unfamiliar river
we now look at,
after I traded my happiness for
survival,
a rainbow for
a knife
to cut my tea cakes with
and smear them across walls
we are not allowed to put holes in.

But I am doing it all,
sleeping in the middle of the bed,
betwixt our loves,
untouching,
for you,
because given it all
it is nothing.

So once again
I promise you,
my dearest,
my old poet,
I am still fighting our battles,
even when the loses
feel far more weighty
than the wins.