She doesn’t want to hear it.

—of course she doesn’t.
women don’t.
not when you’ve already
driven her car into a wall,
set her books on fire,
stood in the ashes
texting flatly, a few voice notes
“I’m sorry.”

if you keep texting,
she’ll know you’re a loser.
clingy. psycho.
—a stray dog gnawing
on its own goddamn leash.

but she’s already not responding.
what do I have to lose?

—what?
your last scrap of dignity?

how could she move on?
how could she just
cut ties like that—
after that kiss in the car—
after all the times her laughter hit the ceiling
and stayed there?

—because you made it ugly.
those drunken confessions,
that slurred poetry,
it wasn’t a song to her.
it was a bomb.
it was warfare.

but I had to say it.
I had to choose.
what else is there in life
but moments like that?

—the hell do I know?
you chose her,
but she didn’t choose you back.

so now what?
do nothing?
sit on my hands
while I rot?

—yes.
exactly.
let the silence
do the talking for once.

but she’s my soul’s best friend, man.
this world is nothing
without someone to sit with,
to laugh with,
to walk barefoot
through the weeds with.

—it’s nothing because you made it nothing.
it wasn’t her job to save you,
to paint your walls with color.
you think she doesn’t know that?
that’s why she left.

but love is blood.
I’ll wipe her ass when she’s old.
I’ll bury her with our kids.
then I’ll drop dead after.
I was born for this one thing.

—bullshit.
you were born to die like the rest of us.
it doesn’t have to mean anything.
let her go.
don’t send the text.

let this be the only good thing
you’ve done for her.

no
that’s the one thing
no one understands...

she’s the only one I’ve ever loved. I can’t not.