And if love was

the last mountain left

to conquer,

then here is 

my admittance of 

defeat,

because we

are nothing,

as if we never

were.

Alt.

Ctrl.

Del.

Spend every moment consciously putting on an air of nonchalance and carefully practised joie de vivre. live in perpetual fear of the sense of failure that threatens to fill you should anyone find out that this deliberately cultivated devil-may-care-ness is truly the most fragile thing about you. that it's all in the interests of recognizing that no one wants to hear about your failed love story any more a year later, not even the object of all your unrelenting, self-effacing, single minded, heart-mind-body-soul consuming love. realize that you have not just beat the proverbial dead horse, but dragged it around in hopes that one fine day it'll suddenly sit up again and your heart will mend. act like it doesn't matter that the sting of what-was-supposed-to-be an anniversary hits you again and again, act like you don't remember what he said and did on this particular date at that particular time when he left you.

laugh it off now because it seems like the graceful thing to do, and what are you if not graceful about these things? laugh it off as your friends tell you he doesn't deserve you, that he wasn't ever worth it. that no one who loves you will put you through that kind of hell. laugh it all off, hear yourself change the topic because fuck your life if he was (or rather wasn't) all of those things, then why do you still talk/think/dream about him? 

go back repeatedly to the moment when you sat in front of your shrink and cried before words came out of your mouth, and cried for an hour, and the second of your 9-free-appointments was when you actually began your story. go back to those mornings when you would walk out of counselling services feeling hopeful maybe for a day until your resolve crumbled. when on some days you felt like you were living only because there were too many people who loved you and you couldn't let them down. notice you still feel like that a lot of the time, and then remember his disdain for you when you told him that all you wanted was to wake up next to him for the rest of your life. big mistake. he took your earnest love for lack of ambition.  

and now? even now, letting go is not what you've done, not what you're doing. if there are words for this, for what you are doing, you'd like to know them. how do you articulate the deep, cloud-like sadness that engulfs you, when you have to make sure your face doesn't betray any sign of what is going on in your head? how do you stem the grief that comes from having tried it all, and giving up because there is nothing left to say or do beyond whatever you did? how do you move on from living a life where everyday is washing over you, and it's all the same. here's a secret: even when you've convinced yourself that it wasn't because you weren't good enough, it doesn't matter. nothing cuts deeper than refraining from sending a message because an automatic light goes off in your head and again and again and again it flashes "what's the point?"

laugh at yourself when people tell you you're mature, wise beyond your years, when you hear those platitudes as you impart your wisdom about their failed romances. laugh, because you can't tell them you wouldn't wish your broken heart on anyone. because no one is supposed to know it's still as broken as it was that day when he walked away from you.

laugh because there are bigger problems in the world, but you, you are stuck on the only problem that matters to you: him. 

poem # 843402263107

This is the one
where i say i love you
for the millionth time
when inside me
there is no more
left to be broken,
when i am tired,
so tired

It makes me wonder
whether i would have
been worse off
had we held hands
more often,
had i been able to
curl up against you
as much as i wanted,
needed,
instead of cursing at
the continents and oceans
between us and
thinking up novel ways
to prove that
We were and that
i did not imagine you and
Us,especially now that
you are quite decisively
 just you
and i am making the
aching, heartbreaking
journey towards
i.

If wishes were horses

then I would recede

into nothingness,

a hole in oblivion

into empty-

turn myself outside in,

and forget

and let go.

Alt Ctrl Del,

reboot and rewire,

rewrite you out of my

heart and do away

with whatever it

is that we have 

been and become

and will be.

reclamation is 

a lie we try to believe,

because you cannot

reclaim love, nor

a heart in it. 

I feel her breathe

on you and i

taste kisses that 

are yours or hers or mine-

i can no longer tell,

and i wonder if

you thought of me.

If wishes were horses,

i would be but a speckle 

incapable of 

love and

tears,

of this.

I am so exhausted of thinking. You never understand exactly how much obsession can gnaw away at you until you get caught without an exit strategy. It feels like drowning, like my thoughts will simultaneously cause me to implodeexplode.
I'm tired, and you are selfish. Even in my head. I wish I could exorcise myself.

"love like ours is never fixed"

i crumble and
shatter and fall
to pieces as

you
move away and
move on
and ask me
(quite nicely)
if i am okay

your manners
impeccable-
and i fall
again and
hope against hope
against hope

but never am
i right, nor
do you ever stay
beyond formalities,
beyond placating
your  conscience

while i
cling on to
shreds of what
you will give
(or take from)
me

and

i crumble and
shatter and fall
to pieces

you were always charming
i was always foolish

run

We run from love,

run-

as the vines of fear

and reluctance thrive in

and creep up

our hearts and

cripple and maim love,

coils of hesitance choking

willingness,

because love is cruel and

hearts difficult to mend.

Better then, so much easier

to not love altogether than

go through  excruciating agony

on account of unloving.

Of undoing what was,

dismantling

what-could-have-been,

forgetting maybes

and dousing flames in hearts that

burn and break

with freezing reality

checks that leave

nothing.

They tell us that love

is all conquering,

forgetting the

pillage and pain that

love (or lack thereof)

renders on the soul.

Forgetting

that conquest is never

calm, nor is it ever peaceful.

When victory is proclaimed

there are casualties aplenty.