“Lapsing into maudlin recollections

Of when the when wasn’t a problem.”

Delicate as you were,

Hot and cold as you could be,

Breath giving as you were,

Rigorous and artful as you could be.

But then,

Not so much with me.

Not towards the end anyway.

Done and done and over.

Finally, I thought.

Cause,

You felt like stage fright,

Like “all the time” I just now realize;

Always fake charms in your cheeks,

And even at ease.

Weirdly enough,

It’s something I had never seen myself seing in you,

Until I did,

Until no more.

I was addicted to that stomach ache,

Wanted to be uplifted and transcended by you,

By the gaze I was trying to grasp from your witted soul,

By your bestial, and intellectual, and social decorum.

Trying so hard without succeeding became a decisive clue

In solving the inevitable:

I

Was

Simply

Just

Not

Enough.

FOR YOU.

Period closed.

Time resolved..

Unto the next… !

Or so I thought.

Again, what a fool.

Days went by and by,

And by the time I had time to time

Myself in a game of guess who

I was uncertain and I wondered why.

And so I thought...

“For when packing was like tracking

A grain of joy in a vase of nil,

An electric feel for an eclectic peak,

A breeze of you rubbing under my nose.”

In vain,

I was stuck.

With the aid of your stupid poetry,

And with your perfume pinching at my memory,

I was trapped, still, in your web of beautiful insolence.

“The souvenirs,

Like a tapestry I can’t remove.

Like stick and stone,

It, as my new skin,

Above and beyond

And over forever.”

And so,

Using your humble preaching for prose,

I say to you

So very modestly:

“You are in essence,

Simply but surely,

What I’ve always been looking for

Nor will I ever search for nothing more.”

Gosh, I hate you.