Tennyson said it would be better to have loved and lost, but he never had you.
He never woke to your phantom weight on his chest, to the persisting taste of your joy in his mouth
He never drew your breath into his lungs and felt that opiated rush
He never heard you pant, and he was never forced to replay the sounds of your cresting again and again and again
He doesn’t see women on the street and instantly recall how your clothes fell silently to the floor
He never knew the torment of having you once and never again.
If you’ve never had and lost, it’s easy to glibly claim that these daily agonies should be preferred.
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