Blocking the hope of a text message.
A chance to even get in my head more.
Closing the sheets in my room so I don’t get a glimpse of you.
Keeping my head down as I walk into the room.
So that my eyes don’t “ironically” find you.
The chills I get when I walk past you.
The foundation of our “relationship”.
The series of actions I went through, throughout my break-up.
There is the anger, the fear, the bitterness that sprouts ironically
From the heart of care—
If only the heart can be cold; if only it can survive to be:
As cold as care can be.
That was lit
On our first
Hi and Hello
With our last
I love you.
Whenever I enter any Indian Wedding,
The clarinet would be lamenting in rejoice,
Playing it would be very frequently happy tunes,
The irony became so profound when I'd move further,
Clarinet already lamented that the groom would lose himself.
My HP Poem #752
— The End —