Excerpts of a Book I'll Never Write: I' Done Sipping on our Fake Melancholy Love

I thought we'd end

what we had on a stormy night

with silent stares

and shallow goodbyes


in the stinging tears.

Instead I mustered up

the little drops of confidence

I had saved up for this moment

and spilled it out

into a poorly written text

typed with shaky hands

during a late night subway ride home.

To an extent

our pathetic exchange of farewells

seemed to cause me more sadness

regardless of the miles that separate

our burnt out hearts.

We were hanging onto

the elipsis at the end

of our chapter

as an excuse to not turn

the page

and begin the next one.

I was afraid of change,

of accepting that I deserved more

than the pocket-change love

you had served

on a golden platter.

I should have listened

to the warning signs,

taken one of the earlier exits

instead of driving myself

so far into this

until I ended up in a

dead end zone.

I don't regret

swimming in your honey colored eyes

for the years we lasted

running on false hopes.

I don't regret the love

I invested in you,

even if it was a lottery game,

betting on luck,

waiting on a one in a million chance

that what I was giving would somehow

win me the love

I thought you had

within you.

But I also don't regret

leaving you.

I don't regret the giving myself

the opportunity

for something better

than your

part-time dedication

to our relationship.

There's no reason

to water dead flowers,

no way to sail down

a dry river,

no use in waiting on forever.