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Description
I spat nasty words like hot curling irons through toilet paper, wrinkling out flames and black smoke into damp spring air.

It has been one year since tensions simmered and boiled down a relationship, cherry picking doubts and fears that tick tocked two months time until explosions rocked the sound.

And here I still move slow like glacier fed molasses and there is no pain or loss, merely a hollow gap I have filled with new responsibilities.

I keep praying to hear rumors of your new boyfriend, cut like atlas and smooth like non-cheddar stone marble in a method of moving on to Narnia.

But chock a blocked full on social media means I see nothing and hear only whispers from missing links, stuck in a fake smile slide towards salary man blues.

I keep having dreams of vision quests beyond my sea valley, running across tectonics to escape what churns in my gut, throwing jokes about bachelor living at 40.

These frantic escapes are headcase travels to distant lands you would not be in and I would be able to relax for freedom from the fear of perhaps seeing you every day.

I am not okay. And my constant search for peace belies a set of varying truths in which I am forever broken, and a tacit knowledge that you are not the first to leave me.

And so redirection in lieu of regression I burrow deep into self dissection, pulling back layers to find the errors.

But it has been one year since things went to shit and not knowing if you still hate me is driving me mad like a tea party in wonderland please wait for my cheshire grin.

I cannot exist. Humans aren't meant to live like wannabe robots moving in cycles of eons. Stuck in cycles of years after the fact am I I am still asking what ifs.

And the motion carries, to a place where I am trying to find the faulty valves and wiring to make the tin man move, but I am useless when it comes to knowing the self.

Perhaps one day when decades have passed and your children have grown you will think of the man I have never stopped being.

But it has only been one year since things started to break down and they have been breaking down inside long before that.

I am best lived in memories, devoid of form, and best served cold as glacier chilled molasses in temperature, as I can no longer bear ill will.

In knowing there is truth: I am not in love. And I am sombered by the thought.

Description
I spat nasty words like hot curling irons through toilet paper, wrinkling out flames and black smoke into damp spring air.

It has been one year since tensions simmered and boiled down a relationship, cherry picking doubts and fears that tick tocked two months time until explosions rocked the sound.

And here I still move slow like glacier fed molasses and there is no pain or loss, merely a hollow gap I have filled with new responsibilities.

I keep praying to hear rumors of your new boyfriend, cut like atlas and smooth like non-cheddar stone marble in a method of moving on to Narnia.

But chock a blocked full on social media means I see nothing and hear only whispers from missing links, stuck in a fake smile slide towards salary man blues.

I keep having dreams of vision quests beyond my sea valley, running across tectonics to escape what churns in my gut, throwing jokes about bachelor living at 40.

These frantic escapes are headcase travels to distant lands you would not be in and I would be able to relax for freedom from the fear of perhaps seeing you every day.

I am not okay. And my constant search for peace belies a set of varying truths in which I am forever broken, and a tacit knowledge that you are not the first to leave me.

And so redirection in lieu of regression I burrow deep into self dissection, pulling back layers to find the errors.

But it has been one year since things went to shit and not knowing if you still hate me is driving me mad like a tea party in wonderland please wait for my cheshire grin.

I cannot exist. Humans aren't meant to live like wannabe robots moving in cycles of eons. Stuck in cycles of years after the fact am I I am still asking what ifs.

And the motion carries, to a place where I am trying to find the faulty valves and wiring to make the tin man move, but I am useless when it comes to knowing the self.

Perhaps one day when decades have passed and your children have grown you will think of the man I have never stopped being.

But it has only been one year since things started to break down and they have been breaking down inside long before that.

I am best lived in memories, devoid of form, and best served cold as glacier chilled molasses in temperature, as I can no longer bear ill will.

In knowing there is truth: I am not in love. And I am sombered by the thought.