I realize too late that I have become a gaping hole. A yawning yearning that opens and opens but never closes, full.

I realize so very late that I am trying to love myself vicariously through you. A vacuous invasion that asks and asks but never responds, answered.

I realize this. It is late in the day, late in the year, late in life. But perhaps it is not too, too late. 

Too late for it not to hurt, yes. But not too late to do something different. 

When the wise people said, "love yourself", I was angry at the simplicity. I thought that they did not understand how hard it would be to choose myself when no one else was choosing me. I had the infinite depths of want and desperation and need staring, unblinking from my consciousness. 

I realize, a little late, that the wise people give simple sounding advice when there is no other way. A loving labor that strains and strains but never tires, ended. 

I realize now that the little love I gave myself was too meager a ration. A gnawing knowing that nothing and no one could fill or feed, complete.

I am unskilled at this new effort of loving myself. A strenuous mountain moving of practice and practice and practice, again.