Damage

 

Damage

 

In the morning - an apology.

 

Now, here was a shock,

after all there exists

so many more deserving causes.

 

You’ll read it carefully

and, in wide-eyed surprise,

fire off a quick-witted response

because you are.

 

But of course, seconds later

you wish you’d taken more care

with implications there

of why the need for sorry?

Vulnerability of the down-a-pegged giver

will stay with her,

and she won’t forget

to make mincemeat of you yet:

well, depending on how big she is.

 

Of course, you see it all.

Striations. Those invisible patterns

radiating from her mind,

and those of her rivals

rocking her chartered world,

and some, to be fair,

you gave her yourself to unfurl.

Striations in conflict with striations,

blind visions that blunder

and perhaps she’s buckling under

the weight of everyone’s patterns

in clashing colours that cannot mesh:

well then, here’s stress.

 

Entombed in a buttressed castle

from high battlements she’s gazing

down - because who is to say

which mosaic, which tile

will prevail with just cause?

 

All these forces contradict

and make for choppy seas

of chop-logic, you found yourself

across the desk from baleful eyes

that had not slept,

where you should have

your own counsel kept,

but, too late, cry havoc and let slip

those words she now regrets.

 

So, tell her you love her,

no damage done,

until here comes another one

and of course, there is some

while you’re left wondering why,

out of all those deserving

she could have picked,

she picked you?

 

But, in the morning – an apology.