Work in progress

Pain

I’m in the beginning of the end of being in love and pain.

Nothing else except cliché causes pain like this—

clear enough that the thinnest paper soaks it up

like invisible ink, staining nothing but scratching marks

upon my scarred soul, hiding between breathable air that’s left

and the miniature molecular structures of cellulose that house

what’s left of my faulty memory.

I think of you first when the sunshine crawls across my face

in the morning; the warmth on my skin reminds me

of what I wanted from you but will never receive.

With you, I wanted something shared,

but now with a sadness and shyness set in,

something is too sad to explain. I have heard

before I am instantly replaceable

with the smart girl with dark hair down the street

and the uncertainty of that statement as truth

is replaced with the certainty that I am

in fact replaceable. I am reminded of the first end,

the sense of loss nearly destroying me, but like the first,

a feeling of finality is missing from my experience.

I asked you if that moment at the park

in front of the trees when I saw myself

reflected in your sunglasses was goodbye.

You shrug—

unresponsive, you cannot, nor do you want,

to break us completely
I am left to assume. 

I have heard I am quick to move on, 

just not this time.

©AC 2014