Until now I had always cradled my heart
for fear of handing it over too quickly.
When we jumped I thought we both fell in disregard;
there was nothing to catch me
but he had always been ready.
Now I lie stunned, struggling,
turning words over in my head
until I forget or they lose meaning,
and feelings pass unsaid.
So I breathe the disillusionment out in stages;
shake mental pictures of him
until he is only droplets on the floor.
And with every sigh I exhale him in small doses
and wait until the memory is no more.
And there is no resolution, while
I am still in the eye of (t)his storm.
Just a constant fit,
a seizure, an earthquake.
An outpouring of worthless epiphanies
inevitably amounting to the same,
dull, humming ache.
But hurt is relative,
and my mistake was not knowing
that I was more than good enough.
I simply could not distil myself
into something only a coward could love.
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