Now do not say ‘I love’, for love is vain.
Though glorious, it keeps a body cold
and drained of spirit. Loving her is pain;
it’s something I regret, if truth be told.
Hand me a blade and I would pare away
the lovely curls, the twinkle in her eye,
the tender words, the photographs of days
much better. I’d surrender to the sky
the psychic chains that tie, a decade on,
my thoughts to her: unwilling as they are,
the chord still echoes: when will she be gone?
Yes, I have tried to run, I’ve wandered far
and humored other loves. By grief and steel,
I would forget! I’d truly like to heal.
Dissolution