Perhaps the philosopher was right

He worried about my job.
He worried about the stress.
I'd cry over the phone calls,
over their stress,
over their need,
over their grief and their loss.
And he'd think it was too much.
He wanted to protect me.
This man who liked to cane me
wanted to shield me from pain.

I'm not trained for this.
I'm not a therapist,
They know where to put it,
they learn how to let it go.
I think I store it up -
all the grief from all the calls,
all the anger, stress, and loss.
It sits there in my bowels,
undigested sorrow, needing
only one more crisis
to send it boiling up my throat and
spilling out in tears and need.

Perhaps it is too much for me.
Perhaps it makes me need too much,
perhaps I live too close to crying,
perhaps I give all that I've got
and need support he couldn't give
to give me the strength
to do it again.

We needed too much.
He needed my silence.
I needed his words.
And now we're left with nothing.
And I'm not there for him
and he's not there for me.
And there will be no us.

I wish there were an us.