CLEARLY ESTRANGED

POEM on one sided love. Moment, I realize our love is over.

CLEARLY

 
 

                      ESTRANGED

"Love doesn't exist, just stop trying to fool yourself..."

She let out in the same tiresome monotone diatribe of late.

"... little moments,
that constrain the soul-
Until, the inevitable instant;
a shared truth is finally swallowed by shadow.
The tender, sweet lies we weaved,
suddenly lost, and these days barely gibberish
Drifting further astray,
reaching so far to barely feel
at our fingertips a meaning
no longer shared.

When everything felt so utterly done.
A moment arrives,
languidly and in no hurry,
Like a cat
stretching free from a warm nap.
Where a breath once shared—of late opens the window for emptiness;
or forgetfulness—wrapped tenderly,
within a mute indifference.

Lost,
trapped,
we're swallowed inside sour kisses.
Constricted within unwanted embraces.
Out of options...
The present turned out to be just us,
bound in reluctance
an infertile state of cold conformity-
as we aimlessly drift about our dubious ether,
weighed down, by our best intentions...

Simple as it is absurd,
bit by bit I become
Just one more of the lost.
Half buried fading pieces of furniture-
abandoned, tossed; simply forgotten
along a long lonely road side.
Through crusted eyes I see,
the blurry speed of people racing by
carrying on, at the speed of life.

Such a slow death,
alongside a forgotten highway,
spent of everything you could value,
with nothing left to offer.

Unraveling little by little,
thread by thread.
With every stern wind,
we endured once together.
With everything that was said.
The desert still,
stretching, expanding
just as we find ourselves further apart.
A day at a time.

Trapped,
In our shared dream,
Trapped,
In a sweet desire,
In a fantasy-

Where:
"Once upon a time
there was an afternoon,
where I felt loved,
and maybe...
so, did you."

Skål!!
Hrafnar Árgeir

1

Footnotes
1  If you will, it happened on the tail end of a particularly hot, humid beach day. My wife and myself lay together on a comfortable, cushy old bamboo sofa beneath the shade. Bare feet entangled as the sun went down on Tonchigüe beach, Ecuador. The idea that she had fell out of love had coldly become accepted somewhere inside me. She had finished saying to me how I shouldn't fool myself, how love doesn't exist.
We interrupt upon the last few stanzas of a culminating poem, ignorant of what was said before. Which ends on the hope that it wasn't all a lament full shame, that she in a different time did feel the same...