Cry[p]{tic(k)}

Cryptic tells a multi-part

tale of tryptical, 

tick-

boxed,

diagnostic 

nature: and from the start

yous never meant me

to heart, but were

looking to blow 

and con-

fuse this being, as breaking 

filament of tongues

ten, the love I once

felt for 

you both at different 

time, 

more than I felt

for anyone’s

else.

And since my heart

no longer cries

for the futures yous will

be or the 

passed yous have 

[in your] past, 

the fault of such line, 

hard made, 

so brutal said, counted 

and laid,

lies inside

your truths: half 

told, unwise.

And though,

even so, I wish you

had not, there

is little now you can 

say or do 

which will 

manage to

break my future heart,

more than those or

full weighs 

yous have 

chosen to break my

only reason for

surviving such

years 

of really damn 

solitary soul:

a [he]art without mouth

to kiss for this long, 

nor arms to

sense in any 

kind [of]

bliss …

so very missed 

for so very

wrong: a song I no 

longer

sin.








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