it use to make me sick. seeing photos of her
getting along so well without me.
an overwhelming,encompassing, consuming wrath
of emotion, of time lost, of kisses wasted.
my only fault was loving her too much, worshiping
the presence I assumed she carried.
each month, assuredly, blindly hoping it would ease.
the empty stomach would gradually begin to fill.
each night, I would awake, with a mind absent of images
of her.
I can still sense her hair, smell her on my hands, feel
the warmth of her hips.
and this too shall pass, every week, says the sermon.
our time is transient, says Emerson,
just another circle.
I can’t keep crying for her, can’t keep wishing she
possessed more empathy.
it’s tragic the time wasted. it’s unhealthy the insomnia
transgressed.
it's unfortunate, my inability to forget.
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