at one point I thought

I was moderately good enough at

a variety of things. 

I pulled myself back from the hubris of

thinking I was excellent at any of it

but found somethings I could look at and say, 

"I'm no star, but this at least

I am tolerable at."

That foolishness has be drawn out of me.

It gets harder to do them, now, 

with every reminder that claiming mediocrity

was in vain. 

It isn't even really the small pond problem-

I don't know if I was oblivious or just stupid

or just tasteless,

but the lights are shutting off, row by row

approaching the small corner where

even my most intimate deeds

the ones I thought I could always look at and say

"I can not tell the world any of it

but I'm good at this" 

are fading into less than 

an acceptable rhythm.

my body could accept the small joys

at least

once. 

I thought occasionally it could give them

too.

But now not even the fibers of my nerves

communicate success, 

stuck at best in almost,

In "well, you tried!" 

(even mechanical success cannot

spark along to complete the circuit

and it's not terribly useful 

without that small success, is it? 

steadfast

 You've told me before 

that you don't remember 

a specific chunk of your life.

The details blurred away

by the chaos of it.

I remember-- some parts-- though.

I remember you calling me,

drunk (too often we were) 

(ah, youth)

and sobbing,

to tell me you loved me, 

to beg me...

I haven't told you. 

I'm still ashamed

of holding too high

a moral high ground

over defended my point

instead of admitting

I love you (too.)

I can't tell you.

In the era of our lives

when you confessed 

your memory failed you

we had come to agreements

of what we would not

ask of each other.

I agreed. 

My agreement made me a liar

and I cannot bring myself

to face the potential

that I have remained

in my unspoken constancy,

while you have moved on

from your tear slurred confession.

I will not tell.