The expecting of expectations


A woman has her labor pains, and I my own, except when her life
renews itself, I go on my daily chore, agonizing over this giant size
unborn, with grieving dolor twenty-four seven, I scream just the same
I cry more often these days, twenty-four seven, in my private mourning
pain, never quite sure whenever my birth may come forth, perhaps with
hopeful weary confidence, left sighing against the ebbing of loss time

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Romantic loss