“You don’t love me, I won’t love you!”
They hadn’t been together long enough
to stop before they hurt each other.
She watched him close the door and leave.
For a long time she gazed out a window,
laying there, sadly awake, listening.
A faceless mob of phantoms gathered near,
compelled by the scent of self-pity and fear.
They feed on that, strangely, it sustains them.
We rarely notice them, that’s their advantage.
Ours is that we can let go, just give it all up.
We feed on love, we are different that way.
She couldn’t let go, so she was consumed.
What was left when the feasting was done:
a numb facade mixed with bitter regret.
Love clings to no position, bears no grudge,
keeps nothing in reserve, devises no strategy
to reclaim or regain what may seem lost.
Never withhold love, never think to do it.
Even if you have been wounded, even then
keep your heart open, there is no other way.