I profoundly Accept
what I’m not meant to have.
Radical reception of empty-handedness,

rejection as protection as clearance.
It’s a beachfront philosophy.
Old meant-to-me’s become

not-meant-to-be’s and I take the memory
over the wreckage.
And what would it mean to fight

for someone? To thrash a rip current and win?
To turn inland affection up to the tides
in a game of sink or swim? I offer

my intervention:
Does not Acceptance tread water?
Is not Struggle admonition?

Thrashing makes you pulpy to the beasts below
the tension by drawing in their vision:
needless exposition.

Throw in the towel.
You’ll wipe out.
Make the buoyant decision.

They call me passive
but the love I choose
does not survive attrition.