Once I’d had her in the bed,
it all came flooding back.
The romanticism,
the zeal of lust,
the touch of something new,
young
and uncomplicated.
The tits and ass of an angel.
I thought I had it all.
The poems started,
long labyrinthine verses
professing a divine connection.
Then, as always,
a few years later.
It fades.
It always fades.
Slow at first,
she lets
some
of your shit slide,
you let her complain
of the same things
in her life
that she
never
changes.
Eventually though,
Both tired and worn
by her inconsistency,
your cynicism,
a helpless
indifference
overcomes you both.
So, in retribution
she fucks another man.
She realises,
my god,
this is what I miss.
A man that wants me.
She comes home,
after another night
drinking.
Tells you
you’re done.
too indifferent,
too, emotionally draining.
She needs to be alone.
You scoff,
say nothing,
except
hand me the mailbox key,
because
in all your time together
she’s never heard
a single thing
you’ve ever said.
She leaves.
You mourn,
not the loss,
just the fact
she’s going to do it
again
and again
until one day she realises,
nothings ever
good enough.