consolation

days like these the frustrations overwhelm, bitter as over-brewed tea
a tiring test of wills to bide my time, bite my tongue
I begin to doubt such things as right moments
exist for goodbyes, for final severances

there is no singular juncture, no time I can point to
and say this hour that minute is where our road ended
rather, a bruised accumulation of unfulfillments and disappointments,
an agonizingly slow dying of this skin I am ready to shed

my consolation lies in the moments to come
that are not defined by you

© Sarah Whiteley