Passing Fancies

Once again, you say you dearly miss me,
And I would have said I believed you, had
Your own eyes not betray you as they flee,

My eyes, which are knowing, tired and sad,
That your tongue flickers these days in swift lies.
My tongue has to still its instinctive tread,

To acquit you of what we both realise,
Is nothing more than the dying rattle,
Of already perishing, poisoned ties.

No, let us both quit this feckless battle,
Of careless whims and selfless fantasies.
Mend our lives, our individual mettle,

And perhaps, taste the old intensity
Not as one, but with some newer fancy.

Wouldn't you know it? He has my replacement waiting in the wings already. Some girl he liked from way back. Sounds familiar? How sweet. His letters detail the same flaws I seemingly possess in relation to his last girlfriend. How devastating. I am tired, and it doesn't help that I am having a migraine as I type this. It is just a temporary glitch in our relationship isn't it?

And I am left wondering if it was a self-fulfilling prediction all those months ago about the laxity in the way he treats me signifying something greater, or rather more deficient in his character. It is easier to think of his deficiencies, than my own, which brought me to this sorry pass.

The only thing I am certain of these days, is that she is deliberately sabotaging our realtionship. Nevermind how I found out. But sometimes I wonder why she even bothers these days. After all he won't go back to her. He's found a different one. One much prettier than the both of us.

Which makes me wonder just how much he tells her these days. Or me, for that matter.

***

It is a bad sign if there is a significant lull in my journalling. So long as I wrote, so long as I purge it in the mechanics of typing, I think I am much calmer, more rational. Perhaps.

Going underground for me means that I have been hurt so badly, I'm lucky to be able to return from the abyss I threw myself in. I don't think I will ever be the same anymore. It is hard to retain happiness from the past simply because one cannot alter, or return to the person that once was.

Happiness, like innocence is dependent on the person at that moment in time. A sort of frozen entity if one may use such a metaphor. One may find happiness again, but the composition of happiness is like a snowflake. Each snowflake is a snowflake, a crystal beauty, generic in its name, but different individually; its pattern unique to its composition. No one will ever be able to find two similar snowflakes. Likewise, no one can feel the same sort of happiness one feels when they are an intrepid two, angsty twenty, jaded forty.