#40

To wear a facade of being in love

while not actually—

a delusion I allow myself

to reign over me,

as I look back

on what my life has been

all this time.

Past the calendar,

still loveless,

even the seasons, changing faithfully,

have grown distraught—

no longer interested

in waiting.

Oh, strange life,

and all of grand poetry,

both symmetrical

and free in verse—

how nonchalant, how wonderful

it would be

if—

like faded memories,

I too could vanish

in a soft,

melancholic tone

after.

I don’t think it would hurt as much

as it does right now.

Yes—right now,

when I am alive,

still capable of being remembered,

though only when needed.

I hurt as well.

Not the kind of pain that screams,

but the kind that settles—

quiet,

persistent,

real.

Oh, I hate this pain

I am in.

I wish my love,

and my love for life,

were true.

Right now,

it’s all

just

a

facade.