A few months ago, my love left me.
She didn’t die, didn’t fall ill,
just vanished into the horizon.
Not even that.
She lives a few blocks up the street,
breathes the same air I do,
cries the same tears I do.
Writes the same poetry I write,
shares the same dreams I dream,
wanted — truly wanted — the same love I did.
And not even that.
She left little by little,
responding to my petty neglects,
to the mental illnesses that pollute my ability to love.
Tragicomic:
my one time loving someone
ended in hatred,
in a puddle of bile spilled
at the heel of badly lived lives.
In my mind, she’s dead,
as if that fixed anything,
as if this dumb, disgusting lie
could challenge the guilt that
is entirely mine.
In repentance, I pray every day
to God, to fate, to whatever,
to my gambling addiction:
if this rose grows, she’ll come back to me.
If this food doesn’t burn, she’ll return.
If a white car passes by, she’s mine again.
And the roses grow,
the food turns out perfect,
the cars keep passing,
the prayers are heard
and still, she doesn’t come back.
It’s truly tragicomic:
to love the only love I’ve ever had,
to be loved in return,
and still fail to appreciate it.
So I’ll read The Clouds,
rebrand myself a humble sophist,
argue she was wrong from the start.
And I’ll sleep.
And I’ll dream.
And she’ll be there,
always.
And one day I’ll die.
And this whole tragicomic farce
will die with me.