Withering

Fuck fuck fuck you
for coming back into my life
and reminding me of what never was.
I was happy without you,
a semblance of it, I suppose,
or perhaps the shred of a dream I never woke from.
Goddamnit,
it was so easy to hate you
and be snide
and treat whatever feelings I had like the shit I pretended they were
when in actuality
gardens grew in the depths of my heart at the thought of you.
But why
why
why why
did this have to happen now
when inconvenienced by time and fate
we are destined apart;
and half of me is glad at that interference,
the other loathing the circumstances at which we have become reunited.
I hate it.
I hate admitting that part of me dwells,
indulges,
on the
daydream of you.
On your stupid face
charming words
and zest
for life.
Pretending that they
were anything other than a reflection of myself
back in the days
when I thought
no,
knew,
I could love you.
So get out of my life sir,
before I'm forced to face it
standing alone.
I am without a patient word
for my condition,
drying out in the blistering sun.
Withering garden
intentionally a desert.
But you don't dare to reclaim it,
nor fill the fountains again,
just as you never could
before.