and I’m glad it’s all over
and that now we can sit
alone
together
alone
and talk about the
past
future
and even the present
despite it’s unapealing, boorishness
in peace
in tranquility
in happiness
in peace,
finally happy to be
where and when and who
we are,
in this moment.

this was a stinging
critique on love,
and the insanity of it
or the insanity of me
and my bipolar disorder
and my anxiety
and my hatred
and how i’ve probably not trusted a soul my entire life and have subsequent problems doing so in the present or any forsee-able future,
but it ended up
dead as the leaves
replaced with something
now as i re-read it,
decidedly more dead
and probably
better.