"She reassured me with an unfamiliar line."
Love is a mystery school, yearning for sages
well able to reckon sixes from nines.
True wits should elect sin's disbursements
rather than reflect on love's scenes of rushing bunglers.
Love is sick, blind, unkind. Aren't we cruel?
She chided: brush your flapper, dying blue
between that pair of cheese crackers.
Remove the Devil's Pitchfork from your hair.
Doubling as Dracula, your zeal repealed
by loving an unpersuaded other.
Stay not inconsolable, my weaning one!
She knelt beside me, interpolating my orations.
Entreat for veritable blindness to take better blame.
Apathetic to any flame, resisting even sipping sunshine
interred in the long night of voluminous drapes,
pray for cardiac arrest to efface 1700 hours of shadows.
Perhaps, pray you would love me, and I shall say something of it.
After a week of treatment, a pill each day, combined with messages “ you have completely humiliated me and made me look an idiot in front of a whole lot of people, inside and outside of work.”
Love is only remembering. Texts within my journal, interpolating old words which are plain and simple. These are vague reminders that there’s nothing in your life.
Next day after nothingness, she’s saying “can’t you recognise? That I’m sensitive!”, “stop telling me stuff that reinforces it”, “it’s not making a positive difference”, “Thanks for telling me this”.
Love is only a future memory which includes someone else. More messages “are you drunk, drunk? I ask”,” are you drinking”, her final reply is “go figure it out”.
Making you feel unimportant or blamed is worse than any rejection even lower than rejecting yourself.
Another text message states, “I don’t want a relationship with someone, who that cant recognises when they call someone nasty”. The day after the next she calls me a "