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Sep 2020
I watched it die. It took its last breath
in the back seat of a silver Jeep parked behind a TGI Fridays,
the windows so foggy I couldn’t tell if he was smiling
when he kissed her.
I couldn’t see if she hesitated when he told her
he was married.
I didn’t see them look each other in the eye
and carefully deconstruct everything he and I had built together,
pulling bricks from mortar with every kiss
pulverizing drywall with every touch.
His hand on her waist, shattering glass.
Her hand on his pants, jack hammering through cement.
And my face on the glass, a bystander, helplessly
spying, watching love die.
Except it didn’t die. It’s always been dead. Every flash of love
a blip, the way Gatsby saw Daisy’s face in the fog,
a white lightning crack against a sky of nothing.
Written by
Eliza Stride
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