It’s the not knowing that hurts the worst
the intermediate internment of feelings
where loves are sized up and compared
shaved down by slights no less slight
than a thought shared prematurely
a complete idea from an incomplete person

It’s not that we want to keep being lonely
it’s that we can afford unhappiness
more easily than the truth
than the daunting prospect of pulling ribs
and admitting what we already know
that two half hearts don’t make a whole


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