CP (4-8-72 / marlboro ma)

Broken

Broken thoughts muddling my mind, struggling to let go of what's gone
namely you. looking out fingerprint smeared window, grey rain filled day lends to my gloomy affect. my inner turmoil rages.
I curse as a horn blares from below. the day fades quickly into the evening rush hour of steady traffic along mass ave.
I breathe in the smell of old smoke and stale sweat.
I've locked myself in for two weeks, after you decided to take your
presence elsewhere, actually anywhere but in mine.
im not eating, the mere thought of food causes my stomach to clench.
im not attending classes, i dont care about academia or higher persuits im not sleeping, no surprise there. nothing is as appealing as it once was, lack luster the world now seems.
steady rain blankets the streets, while rivulets form in the trash
strewn gutters. my shoulders ache as if burdened by a great unseen
weight, exerting itself upon them, upon my lovelorn heart.
my eyes are red and swollen from hours spent crying. chest racking
sobs cause me to visibly tremble. depression has taken me in its
embrace, once love did too, i no longer know its caress only its
bitter after taste. there is a covering, a filthy film over everything. it cannot be scrubbed clean. not just my physical self. its in the carpet, the curtains, the sofa and bed clothes. all have this pallor of decay, like roses left too long in a vase
devoid of water.no sustenance for the flowers or my soul. left to shrivel and die alone, no not quite alone. i was there to watch the petals drop. as they did so did my hope of you calling, another petal, of you texting, another petal, of you returning. until i finally gave up on dreams and prayers which call for faith something i forsake long ago. the phone did ring it was my boss, my school,
my mother, not you though so it became an annoyance and i took the
battery out. i wish i could disconnect the ache from my heart. remove it all together. i dont see a future, only this moment and it hurts. i walk from the window, curl into a ball on the couch. i stare at the fan blades turning slowly, pushing acrid air around the room. i plea for this to stop, i close my eyes and beg not to wake up.

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Pablo Neruda

If You Forget Me

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