The end arrived with recriminations. When does it not?
Probably never. A dismal sort of a dance ensued, with
Us returning to what had been home by ourselves, when
We could be certain that that one with whom, once, we
Swore we would never be parted would be away. I would
Look at the mail on the kitchen table, the boxes of books,
The piled-up bedclothes, and see what appeared to be
Props for a tragedy. Something had died. I found
An apartment. The pain of our break-up, the years
Of contentment, quickly grew faint. I went on with
The aspects of life which had not been affected by her
Having ceased to be part of me, part of an "us"
That had fallen apart. Scar tissue covers old wounds,
And it's numb, and, in time, I stopped thinking of her.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
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Written on 2023-11-09 at 03:26
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