Scattered across my bedroom floor,
glimmers of light staccato on wilted rose pedals
Memories of us,
the faintest slapback of the person I was with you,
flicker with lethargic buoyancy
Fondness for fondness sake,
denial as a delicacy
Your face, obscured in these floral polaroids
Impressions of who you were;
what you meant to me,
a struggle to behold
but recognizable in ripples across the faces of others
Remains of an entanglement that seemed to answer
why the universe was even formed to begin with
This omnipresent truth laying abed the other
jagged reality of our affair;
it was never you,
it was my self-possessing pursuit of wholeness
Musings on the idea that love can be a very selfish act and that, in it's absence, we sometimes look back on a former relationship, not because we still love or miss that person, but because we love/miss the way that person made us feel about ourselves.
