The Worst

This is the worst of it.

We’d said it in the windy rain unsheltered in the plain.

If this is as bad as it gets, it’ll be all right. 

We’d said it when the ice was on our inside.

Think of something worse than this.

We’d said in when the sky was blue and the snow bright.

It can’t be worse than this.

We’d said it when we cried bitter tears and rubbed red eyes.

We know now that it wasn’t the worst of it and that that’s not as bad as it gets.

When we wept, I’d never wept before, we knew it was lost.

Friends change from laughing late night talks to cold hellos and nods across the street.

Or from early morning coffee to counterfeit conversations.

Is this the worst of it?

Hoarsely it escapes lips dry, dabbed with trailing tears.

How is everyone else so perfect?

We thought it, knowing it wasn’t true but that’s how it always seems.

Those who have hurt us the most are the most composed, sincere only in their distaste toward us.

Tried to be a better friend, made the priority but what if you are the forgotten priority?

I would stand in the rain again.

I’d let in the ice twice.

This is bad, but not as bad as it could be.

Forsaken, betrayed by man, but I’m never forsaken by Him!

That would be worse.

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