I proclaim I’m over it,
yet I can’t deny the part of me
that is still trapped within those days.
The days burned brightly,
way too bright.
A light that brilliant
was a sign it couldn’t last.
The fact that I still try to reclaim what was lost
is the final, honest proof:
I am not over it.
How can I be?
I even doubt my right to the name “Posei.”
As hurtful as it is,
I have no more lingering regrets.
No more shouting at the horizon,
expecting an answer.
The moon waxes and will not fail to wane.
The tide rises; the wave recedes.
And so, I try to move forward,
with or without Posei.
Not as a surrender,
but as a proclamation.
I will honor those who shared the path with me.
I will thank that past self
for showing me the peak of our possibility,
when nothing else mattered.
But even having said all this…
if I am forced to look back,
it still stings.
Perhaps I will never truly be over it.
Or perhaps…
this sting is not a wound,
but my very soul refusing to let go
of a fire that once defined it.