Goodbyes are romanticised in movies and books.
The truth is when two people part ways,
it is a slow fade
over a period of days,
weeks, months.
Someone who made the blood rush to your head
with just a touch
or a whiff of his newly-washed skin
Now causes a dull throb of regret
Like a fly that you had been meaning to swat at for a long time
but let be because you're kind like that.
How you long to go back to your
paper-napkin letters
and midnight talks
in the park
and being swept off your feet
literally and metaphorically (obviously)
and the Rebus sessions at night
(But wait, why always night?)
However, it's too late.
It's a slow fade.
Of love (and I guess, hate?)
Till there is nothing left inside except a memory of
the person who you fell in love with that fateful night
when you saw him standing silently at 9 o' clock,
You know, to your left,
And you're left picking out shrapnel
embedded in the softest parts of you
and all you want is a thrombosis.
But Hemingway tells you that you're supposed to be strongest in the places you broke,
But you're done, so damn DONE with the concept of Sad Love.
It's Balderdash.
