She used to say, “love has an expiration date”
and “love is finally as unreliable
and uncharitable as hate.”
What could I do?
She believed it—so it was already true.
I watched as the inevitable took place:
by unseen degrees, the passion
left her face.
She would say:
“Love is madness. Isn’t that Plato?”
My favorite philosopher, but I pretended,
after a helpless pause, not to know.
What could I do?
She believed it—so it was already true.
We’ve all been there: you love someone
so much you cannot argue with them;
you lack energy, and when you try,
you lose the argument if you look in their eye.
Your reaction only makes it worse.
You fight the inevitable
with charming verse
she ends up mocking
gently, while pulling up her stocking.
Small gestures take on great
significance. She’s right. Love is hate
you realize, oh God, as you begin
to hate, what can I do?
She believed it—so it was already true.
The passion lasted almost three years
watered with an underground spring of tears.
What could I do?
Believing the worst—it was already true.