I keep waiting
For perfect clarity
Before I stop
Looking around.
But what if clarity
In less of a
Smack-on-the-head
Epiphany
And more of an
Unfold-over-time
Appreciation
That can only
Be illuminated
By hindsight?
And what if the only
Clarity I'll have
Will be looking back
Over my own
Cold shoulder
Regretting how
I let him go?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem