Unfinished

Tell me this banality staring me in the face
is not your way
of letting me know
you no longer feel.
Five words --
it's
not
you
it's
me
-- grotesquely overused in
adolescent
melodramas
and shamelessly mocked
by maturity's
cynical, biting malignity.
With twenty-six letters
from which to tear the arteries
straight from my heart
you choose merely nine.
Am I not worth more than that?
Are the remaining seventeen
too difficult to manipulate
or have you tired of
manipulation
altogether?

I cannot say what exists between us
now
nor am I certain
that what bound us before
was ever a form of existence.

2:37 PM -- 4.19.2011