Tag: love and chronic illness

One Fresh Hell, Hold the Tomatoes

Last week found me a visitor to a mental health facility, leaving each evening alone and downcast. The place just a few miles from our home, in the foothills south of the city, in an unremarkable single story building where I chose to allow supposed professional responsible human beings to rescue my ailing partner from the shackles of long term anxiety and depression. Leaving without him broke my heart and provided not a whit of relief as a few close friends hoped a “break” in the action might provide. His pained eyes looking upon my sadness as yet another judgement to come down upon me. Another multi-year term added to the #lifer tag around my neck, another blow to my remnants of hope.

All the while I possess the knowledge that I likely won’t live to see our future through to a plausibly happy conclusion. Even though this love 10 years in the making, its melodramatic script changed and the film itself in the can, spliced together and the story arc mangled under the cruel editor’s blade. The final reels go to the studio with my scenes cut and lying on the editing room floor.

I hoped for relief at the end of a long week spent alone over the course of treatment, yet no sparkle reappears in his eyes yet and his life not yet resuscitated. It takes the Zoloft about four weeks to help much. But I’m mostly alone these days. Yearning for my partner’s support and the kind of tender and caring love many of which many metastatic sisters write and blog about, I now look over at him, home in bed, and find one whose dark, inky emotions remain locked away inside his heart, like the stars behind clouds in a dark night sky. He lays there disengaged, thinking to himself about things that cause long bouts of sighing, and the simmering anger of so many men who find themselves bitten by such disorders.

Sometimes, my difficulty lies in hiding my visible outrage for being his care giver for over three years, of which this past 18 months one of the most heart wrenching trials of my life. My god – this and cancer, too? Fuck. What more can one do but look up and ask the ceiling over our bed long and winding questions about the treacherous nature of spiritual meaning, self-worth, and the relative value of a life. I then break from the sum of my existential questioning of cogito ergo… to find an email in my inbox from someone who reaches out to me to thank me. Grateful for my honest approach to my blog posts they type out a note that reminds me of why it’s worth it to know that it’s my responsibility as a wife to make a decision to help alleviate my partner’s suffering and try to revive him. To ask that his soul be returned his body.

He, too, wants only the same for me and indicates we may not stay together. For fuck’s sake — why now and you have got to be joking (the only sentences I can form without punching him in the face.) These trivialities came to him exactly how? And in what universe does he believe he lives in where this would even be okay by a substandard unintelligent alien culture of unfeeling assholes? And with that he passes wind and falls asleep and I’m left to wonder alone, naturally, what fresh hell might await me tomorrow?

Hopefully a new sandwich called “fresh hell” from the deli and no more than that.

And now, Ms. Cancer and Mr. Depression

How does one learn to reason with depression? I’d like to share with you a story about a confused partner who, after the passing of her arbitrary three-year deadline, falls into the rabbit hole and finds herself staring at a 40-car pile up and the unenviable clean up of the bloody aftermath. She unreasonably and unfortunately becomes inconsolable with wave after wave of false accusations hurled from across a house she lives in with this depressed man who she no longer knows, or even knows what she feels for him anymore.

Don’t take the bait. Walk away. Leave. For an hour, a week, or…

If it were only that easy. You know who you are – partners of the dysfunctional. But add a little metastatic cancer to the mix…my shoulders are killing me under the weight of it all. I’m sorry if I come across as confusing, but this whole crazy dysthymic depression without an end in sight is confusing.

I’ve finally helped him to treatment. We, well more like he, vomited the angry bitter disgust of a man who simply wanted to raise his two sons across a 2.5 hour session of exhausting couples counseling with my psychologist. She, by the way had breast cancer, can provide him with a helpful view from within should he inquire. He spilled tears and guts for 95% of the session, at the end of which I said he may be better off getting a bit of help for himself or I didn’t feel we’d make the progress we’d hoped for. He immediately went on the defense and the doctor came to mine and remarked, can’t you see she’s very concerned and wants to reconvene when you’ve gotten through a bit of your own healing? He could not disagree.

I’ve read countless books on the topic. NAMI.org is a web site full of great information for you as a depressive’s care giver. All very helpful.

Here’s a few titles available on Amazon and through kindle to keep the costs down:

Talking to Depression: Simple Ways To Connect When Someone In Your Life Is Depressed https://www.amazon.com/dp/B002DYMB1M/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_OPHwAbK3Z6EC

Depression Fallout: The Impact of Depression on Couples and What You Can Do to Preserve the Bond https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0012GTZBG/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_ZQHwAbH1P5EGN

When Depression Hurts Your Relationship: How to Regain Intimacy and Reconnect with Your Partner When You’re Depressed https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00HZ9SA92/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_tRHwAb7H1451X

When Someone You Love is Depressed https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01H0IGJIQ/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_TRHwAbDTCFKWT

I Don’t Want to Talk About It: Overcoming the Secret Legacy of Male Depression https://www.amazon.com/dp/B000FC0Q0C/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_m3HwAbA93R7H9

The confusing days in the life….

When he asked me what time it was I was holding a stack of books and I said that it’s not too late just a second to look at my watch and this was what caused tonight’s major smack down. He’s called me a bitch for two days, running tests to see how I’m going to react to his nasty new nomenclature for me, similar to a teenager cursing in front of his parents. Yet I embarrassed him.

Apparently I’m the one who needs hospitalization and help and that he, “knows what’s going on here.” I ruin everything night after night with my “selfish shit” and do my own thing. My Etsy online shop and writing are more important to me than having a good relationship with him. Yet, it’s all I can do to keep from losing my own mind to the loneliness and isolation of cancer.

I’m somehow playing a game with him and somehow it’s my fault; apparently I’m the root cause of his problems. I tell him that nearly every night he’s laid here leaving me alone and now he’s saying that’s not true that I’m the one who has ignored him. A new critique appears in the repertoire: I’m an Intellectual bully and he does not want to be a victim anymore. Too embarrassed to even suggest anything resembling sex to him anymore, he’s barked back, “the only thing you’re even interested in is sex.”

No, I’m interested in happiness and I love him enough to stay. He also knows I’ve not the physical or financial resources to leave. There’s days when his light comes on and his blue eyes sparkle and shine like two stars in the sky. Come on you, just wake up and shine with me for a little while and let’s shut this nightmare down. It’s never very much about sex, is it. Love in all its permutations requires a cooperation of high and low and mid range notes all beating in time to the same heart. Does cancer extract my heart from my body for study by science and remain in a clear beaker on a dusty shelf behind an outdated computer book from 1999? No, not this time.

He said he wants me here and he loves me, but answers in vagaries when I ask for examples or specifics. As he retorts, more vague statements such as how I always criticize him. I never say anything positive. All he does is help me but I do not let him help me. Each and every time I ask for his help he’s got more important things to do, ignores me, or just sleeps the day away. My very favorite tactical maneuver is to keep me quiet by calling me a nag. I “nag nag nag all the time.” He said he gave himself up and he made that mistake because he thought it was the right thing to do for me. However it cannot possibly be true since I’m not worth it. At least not according to the oxymoronic verbal diarrhea spewing at me night and day.

I ask him what he means by anything he says, yet he won’t tell me. He said he misses himself more then I can ever miss him. This is a wonder because I’ve been mourning him for over three years. I am being crushed under the weight of his depression. My loneliness and frustration are at an all time high. He is starting to tell me how he can’t get anything from me, I have nothing he wants or anything that is valuable to gain from me. He gives, all he does is give and I cannot give anything worthwhile to the relationship so why don’t I just stop fucking up a good thing and just shut up?

Okay.

Shadow Dancing

Until the day comes when my breath no longer returns from the night,
Now visible from my lungs, vapor trails hang frozen in the wintry air —
Then if my labored lungs must remain longer, I remain.
When the last black bloom of your want wilts and waivers again,
And my secret history garden fades into the night like dreamers in the shallows,
Tumbling (at the seashore, swept up with any undelivered moonlight)
Until my breathlessness sheds the air’s sour taste,
Returning me to the source of persistent music and its instruments
Tuned by invisible, merciless hands.
Voices sweet like memories singing,
Louder than every sound ever heard all together at one time,
To drown out my questions,
Your ciphers long forgotten yet tested for time
To the unknown names of every crime.
Yet to ask from nowhere, I insist —
There, how effortlessly you knew when I waited until the day turned and left.
(You cannot say the name “Forever” again.)

While my words waltz to the end of time,
Dancing to a rolling lento drum,
I sent you a present, a tune wrapped up
With yesterday’s news knotted in pale silken twine – please
Right here in black and white, look at it.
How do you refute indisputable lines?
(Though now every last bite of it tastes rotten and bitter…)
Untie the infinite ribbons of light opening my hands, lost in midair
Drink deep from the water of my solace,
As it drips with words from my lips
To quench the ache of every moment:
Find a small skeleton key in my laced fingers,
Weakened from solving all history’s lessons.
As a body folds in on itself
It holds faster, together.
(We question the answers and quickly bury our words.)

Maybe next year we can awaken the annuals again.
The stuff of sudden daydreams —
You falling into the arms of the air,
I sit and wait although not selfish with my hope,
Yet this alone drives me home again.
(If cure becomes your solitude, then shame reminds you of my defeat.)
As the truth emerges, lighting dim violet walls,
Our bedroom shadows sway dancing, slowly.
As I sing softly in the key of grace,
Hold on to me so that I may keep you still
And reach gently into your memory’s halls.
Your open windows – please,
(Tonight unlatched, just this once I may return unharmed.)

Now, go back to sleep, stay still unmoved until
Morning as its long fingers find your cold cheeks.
Starting you awake once more,
By hearing some faint distant laughter you think,
“I know her.”
And you may possibly recognize my voice like notes of an opera,
(Now impossible to discern my spirit, ascending towards starlight and mournings bright sun)
No one takes anybody or a thing into the ever-years aspired,
And where the memory serves no use, we lose our hearts and fears.
And though we know the futility of life’s take, we all roll at once and descend to die trying.

Film Noir Femme

Energy unbound,
An unsound love.
They called the inspector,
Who wrote his directives.
Sign my motion in your hands,
Look towards the night forget the plans,
Finally release the rabbits and scare,
A negative release, a positive flare.
The night stood arm in arm with such charm!
Giggling, she sweeps the ground burying the bones,
She looks down at his pigeon toes,
Mamma with a pursed lip bit red, not those,
Please. Not those.

Without a tear did the universe ever hear,
Her lips or the purple arm complaints.
The vast morass now drinks, thirsty for misery.
In motels taped off rooms, bordering next door
Arguments. After a secret reveals the time,
Slip into dark circles and sweep away at the flashing LED, 12:01.
At last the key to our lover’s madness, her slight wrists pump arteries under glass turreted copters..
Everything once, now again somewhere.
Nothing gained or ever lost –
While you spent your time wiping tears.
That black spot came with a particularly indecent cost –
And the prize for discovering light,
Two days adrift.

Yep, it’s all in a night, miss,
All in a night. In my pupils’ books I register dawn’s coriander,
Walk in dragging this dead philanderer,
Up a plank and cutting by laughs, the ropes.
Free now! Swan dives, then she elopes.
Winded the joke ended and punched her mind,
Funny with twisted hands in lines maligned
And the black hole answered her in kind,
With laughter as sinister as the noise of the predawn Tom,
Clowns in dark studios made up, dust and white paint,
The pain in your veins, heat aghast, you faint.
The hole swallows her body and soul.

Younger and infinite, a girl, knee high to the universe we know,
Shows us her freak show worthy flaw. In awe, we forget to check the clock. Hurry, please.
My love never reigned us in, you must feel something, still.
(In relative terms, this time narrowly missing our drop point.)
If we pretend to see, to know, to bite a fruit and fall.
Algorithmic syncopated circus acts,
And drums tight as a father’s facts beat out the rhythm:
gone gone gone gone gone.

Maps and Legends

My epic signed by blue,
Pencils edited, erased.
Pages loosened and flew,
White winged birds sung,
Tightened claws bound to lines,
Snap and fly to inner space.

Shortened pagination,
Politely taken wayward
A palace ‘tross seaward.
My imagination skips,
Hissing gently, a light kiss,
Skip the lights aquatic,
Swan dive into the record.
Hole round against,
Metal and rusted center,
End over a feather,
A light in a jet stream.

Dripping ink and rain,
The last page set,
Down in a spring,
Slowly changing everything.
My books marked still,
On page one. Your laughter,
Soaked and heavy with disaster,
Sitting in the oak’s shade,
You kiss my nose and mark,
With cooled breasts. Wonderful
Of you. A park and your hand,
Reaches to shade your face,
As we read from the book
Of the dead and avoided,
The looks of their eyes,
Ashsmed and exploited.
Slaves and a haurcut.

You forgot.
Cash piles stashes,
Ashtrays and snug graves.
We all fall down.
The ground grows smaller,
As I pass the tree line,
Bangs on the Earth,
Becoming her daughter.
Funny to stand today,
Eclipsing the sun,
Looking down?
Avoiding blind faith,
Pin hole in a box,
Gentle and round.
Protect the last epoch,
Hidden in a rainstorm.
Injustice of ghost town.
What substance, space
She left us, just as wraith.

Half a Block Away

There is no greater sorrow than to recall the misery in time we were happy
– Dante

A belligerent handshake, a reluctantly shared cab.
“You know where to let me out?” Your smile, a dagger,
Mouth unwrapping secrets, your sleeves full of cards.
My stomach twists into a gilded fist, so hard,
Throwing a kiss, missing me, you stagger like a park drunk.
In contretemps to your sadness beleaguered and deflected,
Reflecting my resistance on thick plexiglass between us.

Silly, futile shakers who still Tango, with tight hands I slump over your shoulder cold as a rag doll.
Ridiculous. A slipknot stitching me together, jerking me up and over.
You sit me up down here, and I slouch over a stool, nearly fainting, falling, failing.
A light switch flipped peeling myself off your back, We heard lowing cows in the beer soaked yellow fields,
So you  drive me up to the meadows.
Somewhere, the bags of nothing, value of rice flour.
White, like a spit full,of pigs playing poker.

It’s a funny to hear you laughing at jokes older than
Chicago’s elevated trains and trades slid down so torrid.
You hysterical fowl, scornful defenders of anarchy and faith stop. They take a quick look at me,
Face fell first, my cheek on the dry floorboards.
So cheaply made – she’s broken but a workhorse, so you spend less overall.
My face looks like an unbaked raw pie, a bargain.
As my eyes search in vein for a sliver of sky to take me away.
I cooked myself dry from the hot rays and heard,
“She doesn’t know. She’s not worth a dollar but some schmuck secretly paid.”
Her flesh white and the other, a pink piglet that braces itself,
She then becomes a fertile delicate lily. And no mud, no vase, no shelf, in the flesh.

Twisted into aching, she hurts on the gray cold of concrete.
Twenty-four lines back out west, a speechwriter took his holiday.
Filibuster and revolution on the kitchen floor,
Swinging doors evacuate eight, or maybe 12, but I recall the 64th.
Play it with emotion, singing a cappella of coarse.

Extract your lists. Add the new potion —
Keep it simple, no paralysis, you of weak notion.
Now how to explain your remiss?
Who laughs at love’s sanguine languishing sarcophagus,
They soon find themselves falling far down below –
Grace on a sky high alabaster precipice.

I can’t trace time…

As the miraculously sentient creatures of earth with the gift of forethought and planning, sometimes, our little giddinness producing miracles go sideways. New plans must take the place of a road not taken. Make some adjustments to life, or in other words, change.

Change happens regardless of those Steinbeckian mice and men and their ne’er do well notorious plans. Change cannot be adjusted to adapt to our busy day, or to a more pleasing time. Even if you can accept and understand how the new changes will fit into your future narrative, we must reconfigure too many other important things that we are rushing around to get to even acceptance for life altering style shifts in our lives. Yet we’re stuck waiting for “never” it would seem, when you can accept and integrate it seamlessly, not when a moment of  “nothing much to do” happens.  Change, accept it or not, happens at the worst times of your life. How large the richter scale measures the shaking, like change in a life, the worse the earthquake shifts the ground under your feet. Changes become your entire self when the diagnosis of cancer creates tectonic shifts in identity, spirituality, sexuality…all our -ity’s.

Change comes in no particular size, no unit of time, no structural blueprints – nothing measurable to understand how far the shift will take you – a foot or thousands of miles. For instance, there’s little sureties that must change during chemotherapy, such as your toothpaste for periodontal sensitivity and dry mouth from medications and opiate pain therapies.  Then you face the omni-encompassing, life circumventing tectonic shifts. A soul wrapped in a physical body begins to change because of the corpus crisis cancer creates.

The identifications of a  person’s life, defined by what they DO to make a monetary living means less than before, even ending in a firey, screeching crash for some of us. Then what are we? Take our careers away and what does cancer leave as our identities in its wake?  Our souls feel alone since in order to interact as part of a network of people who identify with us, now are those who barely remember our names anymore. We worked on projects once, but cancer took those projects and made them impossible for us to remain on the “team.” Our souls become alone again.

Change to our identities from cancer, especially metastatic cancer, comes from a scarcity of funds and the unkmown quantity of life in human years. The equation for how much for how long when both =x and divided by zero doesn’t exist.

It’s more important to love what you do than making piles of money. The difference between living and making a living, is love. So make love, so to speak. Love what you do all day and love those with whom you choose to spend time with each day. The love you give to your living and to the people who help you make it deserve your best self. On the days when my best self looks something like the sock sorter in hell for the devil himself, I still wear the best possible face I can find inside myself, and get on sorting those damned socks.

By the way, I absolutely abhor sorting socks, and if by some bizarre quirk in the space time continuum hell exists, then hell is not other people as Jean Paul Sartre said, it’s sorting socks! Shut-y. We all have our quirks,so do not be so judge-y. Existentialism aside, stay clear of anything that feels wrong to you, feels ugly, feels hurtful, feels boring. Walk out of a bad movie, put down a dreadfully written book! Consume only content that pleases your aesthetic sensibilities. Once you’ve chosen your next intellectual feast for your mind and with your integrity in tact, pour yourself a steaming cup of Pleasure tea, grab a honkin’ slab o’ Happy Pie, and relax blissfully in the arms of a loving chair. Your flavor. Your way. You’ll love each sip and every bite, and in return have more love for your living and the people with whom you live.

Change your selections in your jukebox to music you can dance to, because no one knows exactly how long they have. I mean really, you could get hit by a bus or something!

David Bowie – Changes

Want vs. Need – to be human is to need

My hope: someone else reads this and realizes others besides themselves feel the heaviness of the life they’ve led and the weight of what the future holds and finds they’re not alone… Reads this with the comfort that if there is just one person who feels this way means others, too, share their pain. After reading this they go on through the day knowing other people who “get it.” Or perhaps the fact deepens the wellspring of hope out of your physical reach. But it’s okay for the “strong.” The ones who people depend on not those who depend on others, our shoulders broaden with time like the trunk of a tree. Ah, it’s all that, and not simple.

Sometimes fear rules over love. Living in fear brings a darkness. The kind of dark without any light at all. The darkness of the universe. Living with love in your soul brings light, and the light brings peace to your soul.

Light and love bring peace and knowledge. Knowledge of many kinds – of the self, of others, and a broader wisdom beyond temporal time – yesterday, the here and now, tomorrow. Light illuminates Spiritual knowledge. As overwhelming as it may seem, actually it’s quite peaceful. It’s knowledge of the fleeting nature of suffering. Knowledge of our short, blink of an eye length of time here we only experience a few moments to deeply interact with other human consciousnesses, with their own crosses to bear, their own fears, and shadows cast by their souls between light and darkness.  It’s therefore incumbent upon those who found peace in the light to bear a torch or at least light a candle for those who cannot find the way due to unwillingness or in this case death. Whether temporarily or because it’s been so long that they can remember what happiness is like, bringing them strength to pull themselves into the light so they can find love, is necessarily our task.

As an aside, last Friday night at sundown on the Jewish sabbath, I lit six candles – one for each of the good souls responsible for my existence and passing on the responsibility of bringing love into this world. The six candles were for my parents, both of whom I lost very recently, and my four grandparents. Leah Kaminsky nee Fox, my paternal grandmother, died in 1969 of metastatic breast cancer. She died before any of my miraculous and poisonous treatments became available for her. Who knows what my life would have been with her in this world. But one cannot speculate. The universe works always as it should.

I realized after lighting those six yertzheit candles at sundown last Friday, how my Jewish heritage celebrated life, not with food of which so many of us joke, but with light. (They fought us, we won, let’s eat.)

I learnt recently that the Jews view the flame of candles to represent the human body, mind, and spirit. Those are the three colors around the wick of a candle: the blue light closest to the wick that burns the hottest, represents the physical body that requires energy (or food – candles were made from bees wax in long past days); the white light next, representing the mind that’s fueled by the body; and the outer red flame represents the soul’s connection to the body and mind and also the light that creates brightness and connects to everything we know and the unknowable universe.

Remembering that life brings love and fear shrouds us in darkness, I looked through tears at my husband who suffers from depression. He refuses treatment. In my tears I tell him that my struggle with cancer becomes much more difficult when he cannot be with me if he refuses help. He believes it’s not authentic if he gets outside help, yet it’s now been two full years. By doing so I feel like he denies me the joy that would help to keep me alive in good health longer. It’s no secret that stress and unhealthy relationship cause illness.  By withholding treatment he’s withholding love from himself, and from me. I believe in some ways perhaps I am selfish, and that I should depend on myself for joy.

But as human beings we need others. He remarked, “I want you,” – that’s a perception of me as object. We want a car, we want a computer. We need other humans – and that is the definition of love to me. Giving of yourself of love – not only the romantic kind of love, but the love we give of ourselves even when things seem the darkest. I told him I need you – in response.

Another aside (please excuse my ADHD). About six years ago, I had $10 in my pocket, and was living through a very ugly chapter in my life that effected me to the degree of experiencing PSTD. My stepson, then nine years old, tagged along as he always did when he stayed the weekends. There sat a man outside of Whole Foods. He was suffering from bone cancer and could not afford his treatments. He wasn’t lying. You could see his eyes and his body and his shame for needing help from strangers. I gave him the last of the money I had to my name that day. My stepson asked why I gave him that money, and my answer was simply, there is always someone who has life way worse than me.

There but for the grace of god go I.

Live in love and light although today may seem so full of pain. Live knowing that you can be the light for another today when things seem so dark and hopeless to them right now. And know you’re not alone, you are amongst a world of people who will bring light today along with you. My birthday is June 21st – the longest day of the year. Was the universe giving me a big responsibility that day? I must assume if I believe in the human spirit that indeed my task is such. But it’s heavy, my shoulders hurt, and my knees are swollen from the weight. But here I stand, while others cannot even get out of bed today.

No chance at all I’d leave my love in his time of darkness. I’ll help light the hidden path until he takes it.

Fuck cancer. I’m stronger than anything that can be handed this physical self. My tenacity and my humor carry me from test to test. Some I pass, others I fail; yet my life’s biggest test is as long as I can stand here and reach out to others and say, “I need you.”

In Somnia

I.
Morning draws up the tired day, yet not even dawn.
The barely risen sun climbs upon the horizon stretching
Warm fingers that weave tightly into wisteria climbs.
Roses, garden royals, heads bob on their thin thorny limbs.

Flowers bloom from rains upon our backyard crop,
Turned earth evicts a few worried worms.
I find Solitude wraps me in her fleshy arms, as you
Slam all the doors and get to work, I to the day’s remains.

Everything under gaudy floral suburban trellises,
Midday springs open, anticipated like a jack in the box,
Fuel for clownishly loud, childish laughter. Anachronisms,
Like “What is it that goes around?” (I never knew the answer, either.)

I grabbed onto a wooden broom handle to sweep up
Shards of broken flower pots around the yard,
Lifted up and tossed aside with angry arms.
Morning wags a corrective finger.

Irises and Lilies shrink now rolled up in news.
I feel you merging into the crush of traffic,
Away from home. Here I recover damp, rippled papers,
From the lawn I recognize of a small sample of yesterday.

II.
Night yields quickly, the wings of yellow leaves,
Whispering to catch them as they fall. I can’t save them all.
They crackle out protests, complaining of dead end jobs,
So I end their pain quickly, one humane sweep of my broom. 

Dinner table talk consumed by heavier things, the leaves suffocate,
Pained by their attempts at life, your eyes winced tight.
It’s as if ants began taking your lunch crumb by crumb, Articulate bodies carry back up their hill like take out.

Saturday, our yield proves more than we could hope for,
Our reaction time short and weakly practiced, like kids.
We hit at our piñata, both blindfolded and screeching.
No cause for celebration, yet an abundance to my eyes.

Maybe to the neighbors, our crops seem meager and weak.
I’m ashamed to admit this upon closer inspection.
Yet if they only knew, as your eyes peek outside,
Your mouth turns up nearly smiling at our secret.