I don’t know when
we fell out of love.
Did it gradually happen
like a candle melting,
or did it suddenly occur
like a glass plate
slipping from a waiter’s fingers
and shattering into pieces?
I remember when we walked
under crisp Autumn’s canopy,
driven by a raw lust for life.
Maybe it’s that very
idealism that killed us.
Maybe we woke up one night
and realised that though we shared
the same bed
we were just two
significantly different people
who could only find themselves
if they went their separate ways.
Or maybe there was an
incandescent spark once,
but like a firecracker that
becomes ash and debris
after an animated display,
we were destined for failure,
we became immature
children make-believing
that they’re swimming in
turquoise waters
when all there was,
was arid land
with weeds and thorn bushes,
I thought we’d seen annihilation
and beauty, embraced
them in their respective
red gowns of wrath
and white, silken, prophetic robes,
I kept telling myself that
there wasn’t anything that could
break us, but looking back
I realise that we were already broken
beyond belief, clinging onto
a mere concept of romance
that led us to the darkest corridors,
all the while pretending
to be as lucent as
a friar’s lantern.

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