I'm lying to myself.

I'm not in love with this one at all.
There's no passion in this house.
There's no standing ovation in this auditorium.
Groggily, I
Forcefully awaken myself
Spoon sugar into my mouth until I choke
I attempt to read to no avail
Words just dance right out of my head
Words just die like autumn leaves on my lips

And I'm lying to this one.
I don't find him beautiful.
He doesn't deserve this austerity.
Issuing out of my lungs—all blue and black smoke
There's no passion in this house
No, because even the wooden floorboards
Creak with something deeper than melancholy

Words are irrefutable
Words are nonrefundable
I do not love him but I love the one before him
Wandering, I go listless,
Traveling through each room in the house
Vestigial ghost that I am
Inundated with sadness
Choking on it like the dark pit of a spoiled fruit
I can't get the words out of my mouth

The scalpel or pair of scissors I would apply to my skin
They're the words on this page
Words I pull out of the plywood and drywall
Rotting like the deadened
Husk of a lone tree in a silenced forest
Love doesn't reside in this auditorium
It died somewhere when he hugged me goodbye
It died somewhere when he never came back
And I realized that I couldn't find him over a cup of tepid coffee
In the books that I struggled to read
In the man that I desperately tried to bury him inside.