Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

I Don’t Love Her Anymore

I don’t love her anymore.

She wakes up too early,

aching arms yawn,

reaching for a moment that melted,

before she awoke.

She closes her fingers in the door,

just to be held,

for a second,

tears from dawn ‘til dusk,

tearing her clothes from her skin,

in case you drop by.

She knows you like her like that,

but she doesn’t like herself,

her nightly normal,

delusion for dinner,

disappointment for dessert,

deserted by a dream that never promised to come true,

unhappy and undressed,

in the moonlight,

cider and cigarettes,

high on the happy thought,

that she’s bound for better things,

when the sun rises,

and she’s survived another night alone.

The sun never rises,

stars collide,

falling down around her,

forming a shadow.

She is smiling,

free as a death row darling,

that has found God,

and a way to accept their fate.

I don’t love her anymore,

but I wish that I did,

so I could dress her,

dragging her back to dignity,

back to safety,

away from the melancholy moon,

that just wants a sad soul,

to drink with.

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