So Much Flotsam. Poem by Terry Collett

There would have been something,
but nothing, that you know and understand,
and it is in the understanding
that the hurt comes, bites into you,
almost tears you apart.

You wish it could have been otherwise,
but you know wishes are phantoms
and and are childish promises
that never come.

He could have said, but he didn't,
left you to work it out afterwards,
after he had left and with her,
her of all people.

You tell yourself not to sit and mope,
but you do, knowing we can't pretend
not to feel and be hurt.

You could lie in bed all day,
hide beneath the covers,
think of happier times,
but the time will come
when you have to get up
and face it and the world,
and know you are not
the center of the world
and never were
and never will be:
just so much flotsam
on a wild sea.