This Would be the End of Us

It’s an immature title. I know.

This is not a love poem.

You were always eager

to ease your conscience

with a misconception of me.

 

That should have been your tell.

 

You were always fake

when you

could have been brilliant.

 

I am not “your person”.

I am not a lost puppy,

a docile poet,

wrecking the newspaper

you laid down for me.

 

I took my punishments as any should.

I allowed your lies to confuse us

and cloud over me.

 

My empathy was my weakness.

My trust was a target for your knife.

You are the worst kind of love.

You weren’t even the beautiful

tragedy

in a sad

wilted rose.

 

You are the neglect.

 

I loath you.

Not because you’ve become a villain,

but because

nothing you ever said

was tangible.

 

And now I’m clear as

to why it is that’s wrong.

 

Sometimes the worst atrocities in life

are commissioned by those who

stand idle,

while others burn.

 

One day these words will reach your page

and it will be a soft awakening.

It will occur at first

to be a variation in the sky;

after the sweat summer silence,

from under the buzzing of bees,

in wind chimes that seem to emit

exasperations now

rather

than pleasantness.

 

And I hope this void comes upon you

as abruptly

as it did for me.

 

And together

as we stale

at last

into the evening,

you will read this

and know

without a doubt

that I no longer burn for you…

 

and that will be my ending.

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