“I am wasted passion.”
She talked for years after saying that to me on one of those youthful nights
I have a growing tendency to fear it’s the last thing she ever said which came from her heart
It felt like her final cry for help, but I didn’t know how to help her
She was with another person
Our friendship was frowned upon
She seemed to want me to ruin the prior best of what she’d been building
And I didn’t know what it said about me that I wanted her undesired self to be ruined;
that my greatest longing in life was to destroy the beautiful mundane she’d made herself a captive of well before I came along
So I committed myself to the hard (and weak) work of doing nothing
She hung herself on the clock of indifferent ignorance as a result
And her unimpeded death was so much closer than I’d have ever believed
Even now, acceptance of her demise is a daily dance with desperation which I’d rather just deny the reality of
There are so, so many pulses on the face of this cooling sphere of an ember
Yet I plainly know that my pulse is completely alone without her
And this heart may as well be too broken to beat
For now I too am nothing but wasted passion
I do but offer mistimed melodies to the unspent love I survive on
And death plays them back to me on an instrument of silence
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