Pain was but a memoir of our tragically beautiful
existence that twisted through my inability to
release you from the atoms that defined the
depleting existence of myself.

Desensitized to the brutality of my impotence
to love you to the magnitude that should of quaked
your heart that instead drove you back to the
other distant figure that dismembered it.

Intoxicated with lust, I thought the potion was
satisfactory to act as the restorative,
saving us from the noose of a dysfunctional
relationship back to the cotton sheets where
we’d observe the springs delirium.

See I was callous and you were compassionate in
my incursion to purge your individuality in a
sinister plot over my own absence of esteem,
lost in my destined oblivion somewhere between
birth and a loathsome existence.

An addictive nature was never defining in my
persona until you made me identifiable by
the smell of tobacco, coffee and the
reeking obsession I never lost for you -
ambushed by the tears that flooded our
farewell as I failed to guide my sobbing heart
through the cataract that glazed your
‘I love you too’.