Aftermath

Half are prepared for the aftermath of a relationship ending. They have planned it, foreseen it, welcomed it even, and thus can move on. The other half were not as fortunate. They were not warned or prepared. At least not adequately. So they stumble now as they stumbled then. And they don't really move on at all. They have nothing to move on to after all. Rather they go backwards. The old days and the old ways are forever played out. In an endless loop. And so even though the previous part was supposed to be the last part, here's some more poetry. And some more prose to explain the poetry. Of course. With what else can I comprehend these strange events, these peculiar dreams and these odd happenings. By what other means can I prevent these persistent memories, these imagined conversations and these warped ideas from piling up inside my head. I guess I am still looking for the answer to such a question.

I don't write this for anyone else. Not anymore. I write all this for myself and myself alone. I appreciate how few if any will read this. And how few even if they knew of these scribbling's would even want to wade through this. I know all too well the limit of my reach. That tide recedes with every new day. Nobody who sees this needs this, nobody who needs this believes this. Yet here it is. Something to remember me by. Give me that at least.

"The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth." Jean Cocteau