How you lost

You lost because

you wanted to

help me

square circles

of serious

import: of

almost

tragic quality,

of clearly –

now – heavily curated

idiocy.

 

It would’ve been

so easy

if everyone involved,

instead of treading

silently and

dumbly and

foolishly, and

secretly around

my being,

my

self,

even my wealth (if that’s

what we could properly

say … if that’s what lying

might lead us

to lay!),

had simply

promised:

“You remember

that?  The love of

your life?  The person

you once felt so

good and true

and honest and

different

with?

We promise you,

you wait two

years, and

defo – signed,

sealed and true,

and delivered

crazy and delivered

wild,

and real and

tough and hard

and happy –

you’ll recover

all that stuff

you once

gloriously

had.”

 

And yet

knowing my

history, the twats

you’ve all right been,

the madness

you’ve all contemplated,

and how you’ve

gone and

done me in,

imagine you’d decided it

better than

make-believe: imagine

you chose to better the

strange old pasts, and

not confuse

me with smoke and

vape, and

weirdly focussed

mirrors-west, and

other shit like all the

shit you’ve piled upon

my soul.

 

For what you simply

have not seen

is that living with

person who’s driven

me mad is not something

I’ll  survive

for even one more month.

Whilst twenty-four

were something

wrong

I’d never have

been able to live out

at all.  It would’ve

routed all sense

and sensibility: all

quality of

mercy,

waned.

 

And you could’ve

won this

tournament so

fine (handsomely and

outright wonderful,

too),

so soon and

painlessly summer-

wise, if those who’d

set this madhouse up

had simply spoke

that clear to me.

 

If only you’d

said – that tad

upfront –

what you fucking

meant to say.

If only instead of

forked tongues

of mystery,

you’d spooned me

with love and sex

and smiles.

 

I’d have been all

yours, so

very soon:

first and foremost,

so very clear.

And I’d have

understood it

easy, precious; I’d

have understood it,

ever so dear.

 

And now you’ve

lost, and now I

forget to pursue

all desire to be with

women at all.

Like cream from the

milk, I shall

separate from wife,

and also learn to

live alone,

as stone apart

from hand which

throws:

in splendid

isolation, I guess: but

never

cruelly so;

never

dangerously so;

never lone wolf-

like at all.

No.  What you’ve

achieved is play

into the hands

of the wife who’s won

outright:

instead of me, in the

hands of your mother,

you’ll carry the

weight of condemning

a good man to

the loneliness of the

very long-distance

runner.

 

And then we have

one final footnote

to view:

one final curious

bewildering truth.

You even did pave –

for me – the

path of my

all too

easy academia:

and nothing I’ll ever

now achieve will

be because I am worthy

on my lonesome,

on my own.

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