Tonight I can write the cruelest lines

Write, for example,'I was idiotic enough
to imagine that you loved me,
and I sort of felt sorry for you".

The night wind is placid but cruel.

Tonight I can confess the meanest truths
He said he loved me, and I said I "sometimes" loved him too.

Through nights like this one he held me in his arms
We kissed again and more behind the Sheares Hall walls.

I loved him "maybe" and he loved me true,
How could one not have loved that crazy hair and perfect lashes
and goateed chin and clear sad eyes.
I think I may well be a Jew.

To think that I have lost him.
But he lost me too.
Tonight I must write the truest lines:
"Clearly, we had no sense of direction".

To hear the dreaded silence, still more empty without him
I wish the verse fell to the soul like dew to the pasture
but I am surfeited on images and my soul yearns for things:

noel coward, text messages, homework,
alcohol, gym, food,
men, poetry and tears.

Oh, it matters, it mattered,
that my reticent love could not keep him.
(I wonder if sex could have)
The heart is shattered and he is not with me.

This is all. My heart is a vacuum and it cannot sing.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost him.
My sight has to be restrained so I do not stalk him on Facebook,
My heart looks for him and his is not looking for mine.

I finally admit I love him, that's certain, and now I must stop.
It was already too late when I whispered it in his ear
My voice no longer speaks because it is sick of itself
and also because he no longer hears me.

Another's. He is already another's. Like my kisses before.
His voice. His bright body (Unfortunate pun). His infinite fragility.
His unrestrained sexuality.
His impertinence and cowardliness. His fear and insecurity.
His idiotic ambition. His perpetual broodiness.
Thank god, they are not mine.
I wish they were still mine.

I cannot love him anymore, that's certain, and maybe I won't.
Or never did.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this once I held him in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost him.

This will not be the last pain I make myself suffer:
I also make others read
these verses I write for him.
Please do not find this.
I didn't write this for you.
And you will never know, like many other things,
he will never know.