the story of the year was nothing but an escapist fantasy.
she took it, she read it, and she understood it as such,
yet she did not point it out so as to make it less real.
across an expanse of water and an equally daunting stretch of time,
she assumed my unjustified and unjustifiable love would dwindle,
would crumble, would fade, and would die.
and in fact, her plan is working.
every second, like a cancer,
the love that courses through my brain is being transformed.
through sheer pain and disillusionment,
whether she likes it, whether she knows it,
whether she wants it or not,
the waves of infinite love,
the ones that used to lap at her feet when she,
alone and too beautiful,
would sunbathe on the shore of my ocean,
they are turning toxic.
something has gone wrong.
like a tormented planet, choked of all good, deprived of love,
my wrath tempts my restraint.
will the hot and angry sun scorch the lush rainforests of affection and goodwill?
will the bitter waters flood the plains of balance and reason?
will my mind,
whether in retribution or in self-defence,
turn to thoughts of cosmic revenge?
but then,
with a flash,
the drugs kick in.
or are they wearing off?
and i realize that it's all for what?
and i remember what i want.
and i smile.
it's a simple wish, really,
but it's proven elusive, at best,
at worst, beautifully, passionately,
revoltingly unattainable.
i hope it stops.
but will it ever begin?