It has been many months,
since I saw you last.
Eighteen,
to be exact,
since our secret trysts stopped,
since I sent you away,
telling you,
it was the last time.
It was always the last time.
Every time,
I don’t expect to see you again,
but you follow me,
like a phantom,
finding me,
alone at night,
aching for an ending.
I think,
sometimes,
that I’ll forget you,
but you carved your mark,
on each of my bones,
scratching into my skin,
our everlasting union.
You persuade me,
that we’re good together,
gripping me in your grasp,
isolated and influenced,
frightened to forget you,
in case you were meant for me,
but frightened of the hold you have on me.
You are not here,
but I repeat my words.
That was the last time.
That was the last time.
I cast a spell,
casting you out,
keeping myself alive,
just long enough to say,
that I love leaving you behind.
That was the last time.
I have to hope,
that it was the last time.
I have to love myself,
more than I love you,
so,
it must be the last time.
