They tell you you’re not in love, but you are.
Isn’t it terrible? To love so selfishly, so
completely, is the opposite of love, they say.
But you know the truth.
It is all there is.
You think you know death, but you don’t.
You’ve read all the books, studied your Plath
and Goethe and the Brontes that matter,
but not from beneath the heavy blanket of sorrow.
You believe you won’t live to see 30
but that your father will live forever,
his Superman heart racing on.
But it will stop. You still
grieve for lost moments
without knowing why.
You are not unhappy, not yet.
That will come in time. Breathe
now, while you are invincible.
While there is nothing