The Unrequited

Poetry

He loves her and I love him.
As I sit in my darkened box,
my lips are stale from his last kiss.
He loves her and I love him.
His clouded soul penetrates through me from across the room
and I shiver in instinctual anticipation.
He loves her and I love.
Moments. Emotions.
Fragments of the past six months resurface as routine prevails over me.
He loves her and I.
Forgotten. Useless.
Discarded like death delivering an orphan to a filled home,
a pseudo smile echoing the sweet words of past lovers.
He loves her and.
Ripped out from the protection of my ribs,
I am dipped in the River Styx,
as my heart beats in his chest.
He loves her.
Yet my soul doesn’t weep,
as he proclaims his love across programmed rooftops.
He loves.
In the end, it doesn’t even matter…