i do not think i failed to see the end come,
i merely feared it.
and yet
i still write about it -
the way a prophet writes voraciously about the inevitable,
never living it out. and now,
the paper feels more bitter than gourd,
the pen sharper than knife,
my thoughts pinching at my brain.
i feel hopelessly ambivalent,
distraughtly confused,
achingly wistful.

there's no words for your
absence; an unfeeling ache
that traps me sorry.

am i too flawed to love,
or are you just unable to love me?

i do not know what to think.
it used to be a lack of breathing that came with a lack of feeling
just as night succeeds day
just as the thunder precedes lightning.
now, i just write -
thinking this act of releasing could relieve all the pain.
but it can't.

for a prophet never feels the pain of his people until they live out his spoken truth;
so my brain never feels the pain of the heart
*until it has been broken.