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What separates
the unobtainability
of closure
from the rest of love
is the same impediment
to coordinating with
one’s own heart,
like carrying around
something whose instructions
were written in symbols
you don’t understand.
Snow storm.
Fallen tree
blocking the road.
Nothing to do but to
turn around or wait
until something moves,
until someone gives.
But either way it’s
out of your hands.
You grip the wheel
but you
can only steer
your own craft,
your own sphere of what
you can substantiate
with what you know,
or think you do,
or fail to weed out of
what makes your waking
distinct from dreams,
especially if sleep
offers you
the only respite
from a broken heart.

And the words that
we did not speak
to call ourselves
lovers, when
in all technicality,
we were,
now stoically refuse us
the words that let us
let each other go.
How to obliterate
all signs of an
agreement that was
never made?
Where to start?
How to admit
face to face that
it was merely a habit
that spiraled into a
döppelganger of commitment?
How to appraise the cost
of forgetting a memory
that had never been
anything but tentative?
Whom to pay?

Festering blight
in my heart.
I close my eyes,
I close my eyes
waiting for the hurt
to pass.
I beg of you the courtesy
of not forcing friendship
upon me,
at this time.

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