Things go wrong entirely too often in the lives of young women who give up their hearts to love. And before these beautiful creatures can suck it up and move on, there is the necessary part about having to deal with the universe collapsing around you or, at any rate, imploding within you. I wonder how it feels when you have to look at his face while he's asleep at that moment, unaware of what just changed. I wonder how you deal with him waking up in the same space as you, and how you muster up the strength to look him in the eye. I wonder if you'll even confront him about the full extent of what he's done, because I know you and I know your love for him.
We're all terrible, terrible people in some ways. In many ways, actually. A lot of us may even have bought ourselves a one way trip to hell (whichever brand of it you choose to believe in, or if you even believe in it). We like to think we're not hurting anyone else with what we do, but that's only a half-truth. The real story here is that we will end up doing it, whether we planned on it or not. And we saw it coming, but our recklessness, our absolute disregard for care had us convinced that it would turn out perfectly in the end.

you have to reconcile yourself to it at some point. i guess.

But see, we're all only just waiting at these stations for that one moment that resolves us. That's what it all comes down to: look for a last rest stop, and possibly stay forever. We can convince ourselves this is it, really. All to live for (and to die), and in the end it's only a matter of believing what you want to, not what you've been taught. Honestly, tell yourself it will happen and then chase those dreams till the thread runs out. You won't know how you got there, but at least you'll have a journey. Just as a little memento, just something to look through. To help while you wait for that one station that speaks to you and makes you want to be.
I've been told sometimes that being is the greatest gift I'll ever get. It's good to have a chance.

Quite unlike Lullaby
those authors of bliss aid
sordid fantasies,
Reminders of could-bes
and not-quites

recreate Cheap Love.
We were not meant to be lovers
nor to recreate
Ancient Lore

We were but players.
I live to forget my indiscretions
in  your moment of lying comfort.

Hold on.
And eyes squeezed shut,
breathing. Whisper a half truth.

I forget in the personal,
And the brutally close. Forget
when your profanity became sacred

Rude shocks of morning breath as
you find
a lash clinging
And then turn to
Football scores.
I pluck it gingerly and wish
for innocence back,
what better gift?

Your preoccupations
my lack of indignation.
Both astound me,
For I give it all, and I do not know
What right this is
nor what i should ask for.

Recede into insignificance.
No hard feelings.

You forget, you forget.

They write of love as if there is nothing else. I smirk in hushed, polite tones. At the eventuality of these things, at the quick collapse, at the necessary process of making it amount to something. At least we've got pretense.

When did it all become so fluid, so changeable?
To what end did we leave behind the selves we shed?

But truly, there must be something remarkable in being so insignificant?