This pattern is repeating again and again and- you knew this was coming. There is masochism in old love songs. How could you veil this truth? Your truth, the truth you denied over and over to quell the ache. Your eyes are as blind, as vacant as they’ve always been; dark surfaces, refracting and reflecting light. You knew. Smiled and painted a rose colored canvas in your head until crisp, cold air flooded the passageways of the heart. The sanguine oranges, the rose colored strokes were white-washed away; a blanched canvas with its dying rogue hues, silently gilding off the contours of the frame. Maybe the brisk air was all it took to see the bleeding canvas before you. Wake up, smell the coffee again. It’s strong, pungent—maybe a little too acrid. Black coffee and un-filtered cigarettes. Truth. You’re exhaustible; simply a commodity to soothe the emptiness. It’s not you, just what you represent. What you can offer.

Never was you.