Love is Dead


He says that he loves me
but the cruel truth of the spoken word
is that it holds no weight to it-
like the wind which blows
unless it’s built upon by other elements.

In the beginning, his spoken words felt heavy-
full of substance and a passion
unmatched by any other.
His spoken words were accompanied by
soft touches whose highly
delirious effects
lingered long after
his hands stopped touching me.

His spoken words were accompanied
by late night adventures where
his full attention was all on me-
like the way the paparazzi
react when a movie star walks by-
and no ill- tempered feelings
filled the air.

In the middle, his spoken words felt semi-light-
like some partial truths were starting
to seep through the cracks-
but the cracks were tiny enough
to vaguely ignore
on the metaphorical glass wall of our trust.
His spoken words were
accompanied by fewer,

which left me with a desperate
fleeting moment of pleasure
which was rapidly replaced by an
agonizing, soul crushing
feeling of emptiness.

His spoken words were accompanied by
less late night adventures
where his body was present
but his mind seemed to
fade….. in
out of reality.

Like a soldier, I felt like I had to
fight to get his full attention.

Like a prisoner of war, I felt like
I lost the countless battles
and was held captive by the
reassuring moments of
“It will get better”s by him.

Like a wounded soldier,
his spoken word was injuring
me like the jabs of a
freshly sharpened knife.

At the end of it all, his spoken word
Felt light as a feather.
It was as if Death himself had
taken the meaning of his words
back to the dark abyss with him
but left the words behind
leaving the empty shells
of what used to be
undeniable greatness-
like the ruined temples of
ancient societies
eroded by the weather, old age
and lack of upkeep.

And, like my love for him
has ended,
so must this poem-

the end.

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