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Is this what closure feels like?
The realization that true love can fail
And the fact that that is okay?

I don’t want to love you anymore
I have broken free
So even if you are wonderful
And trust me, you are
This is the end.

I am not angry,
I am not sad,
I do not regret
I do not want you to want to forget

This is the last of these poems
And I do not want to write any more

It has to be this way,
When love loses.
—  “When Love Loses,” Poems to Beatrice.
It’s a strange sense of emptiness
You’re forgetting something
There’s something you should do
What is it?

You feel purposeless
Lost and without motivation
There’s something
But you can’t put your finger on it

A hole somewhere that has to be filled
A job to be done
An intangible race to be run
Where’d she go?

Something you’ve lost
A part of yourself
Of your mind
Of your heart

A person or a place or a thing
And what are you left with?
Your skin remembers
In the depths of your bones
Perhaps only in one of your ears

You can’t let go of the touch
Or the sound or the sight
The feelings
The thoughts
The memories
They have gone

It’s the tangible that has become intangible
And is now lost
But will not be forgotten
Without a plan
Without rhyme or reason or structure

What is there that is left to do?
What is the goal?
There’s a certain emptiness
Something you’re forgetting

What should I do?
What should anyone do?
—  “Rhetorical Questions,” Poems to Beatrice.
My engines are revving
I have to get free
But I’m pulling this trailer
Get off of me

My skull pounds
The tires spin and smoke
I breathe in the exhaust
As I start to choke

Get out of my head
Stop cutting my heart
I have two choices
Run or get torn apart

Leave me alone
You witch, you liar
I was your prisoner
And my soul is your funeral pyre

You loved me, you did
You’re hurting, I know
But I cannot fix you
Away I must go

I will not forget you
For our love was true
Yet my engines are revving
And I bid you adieu
—  “Engines,” Poems to Beatrice.

She’ll come back
Of course she will

She isn’t done with me
She isn’t done with this
She isn’t done with us

She says she still hopes for some future
When she’s ready
If I can forgive her

What if?
What if?
A thousand what ifs–A few unbreakable promises…

Will I be able to say no to her?
I so want her to ask

I can’t wait
It’s stupid to wait
I’m delaying the inevitable

She’ll never be ready

Why can’t the stages of grief go in order
That would make them so much easier to handle
Scrap the plans
Save yourself
Stop looking at her pictures
No more Hope

The end is here

The Queen is dead
God Save the Kingdom

The end is here

She won’t come back
You silly boy
You romantic fool
Of course she won’t

—  “Denial,” Poems to Beatrice.

A lot can happen in four days
An emotional rollercoaster
A haphazard display of the fabulously dramatic
And painful
And lonely

You forget what you were feeling
But you have the notes that you took
The thoughts that you had

It doesn’t have to be hidden to be heartbreaking…

I do it to fill the space:
Jacking off instead of crying myself to sleep.

You give away a piece of your soul
You’ve lost something precious
Power or consciousness or self-control or health
Illness and misery set in

A sickness of the mind
An inability to function
A core desperation for some kind of appreciation

I am broken
Like a toy that stopped being fun and was thrown out
I have been replaced

The laws of logic are cruel, heartless and judgmental
And when logic defies faith, Romantics shatter.

Breakdowns are becoming more and more common.
Productivity is limited.
Progress is nonexistent.
Hope is fleeting.
Rescue is implausible.
Symptoms worsen every day.

And then it all collapses
To Just


—  “Four Days: March 18-22, 2015,” Poems to Beatrice.
This will be shorter
but the geography of the kisses
I will plant on you
Is beautiful
The geography of our relative
locations in space
Is not
But both are there, both are true
And sooner rather than later
I will follow the map.
—  “A Lesson in Geography,” Poems to Beatrice.
I see the moon; it shines so bright,
Shadows of truths that can’t be seen.
My heart, it sings for you tonight.
I see the moon; it shines so bright,
And in your eyes I take delight.
The dark around me is serene.
I see the moon; it shines so bright,
Shadows of truths that can’t be seen.
—  “A Triolet,” Poems to Beatrice.

If the protagonist
The hooded adventurer
The journeyman
The highway child

Who arrives in the nick of time
To save the day

If the man on the quest in the book
Isn’t single to start out the story
Then how can we have a wedding at the end?

Wrapped in a cloak of loneliness and hidden authority
Accompanied by (maybe) a few friendly companions
He sheds the rain as he marches on to whatever his destination may be

This lone venturer cannot already be in love

For he
Must find
The princess

He can have a past
He can have a story
He can have scars and swords and mystery
But he cannot have a girlfriend

For he
Must find
The princess

There are choices before him

He makes a choice to set out on his adventure
To start a new path for himself
To be okay with being alone on the road

It can be good to be alone.

A choice to be made
A choice to leave
A choice to love the one he encounters

There are choices before him

This is a choice
Make the choice

Get up.

—  “A Choice,” Poems to Beatrice.

I didn’t think today was going to be a poem day
Or a thin day
It was a miserable one for both of us
But that is no excuse.

You cannot be more honest with twitter than with me
I have to get that into your head
I know that’s not really how it is and it’s different and its not like that
But that’s how it feels

Rule One, my love

I don’t want you to apologize, because I am not mad.
I just want to help
And I know when I say “It’s all going to be alright”
And you say “Yes”
That you are just saying that so that I won’t be worried
But you should be able to see my worry
Because I was just as worried before
I can tell when you are in trouble.
I kept saying “I feel like there is something more”
I let it go
I let it go and then you flipped and now you are off to a miserable night
You have been abandoned to misery and migraines and homework and
There is no way you will get the sleep you need
Because I let it go.

Protecting you is not a choice. Honesty is the only option.
Worry is a state of being.
Fear exists.

The way to beat it is simple.

Love is the silver bullet, the point, the message,
The truth, the way and the light
God is love
God loves you
And I love you too. And my love can beat this. You just have to share with me.

I knew there was something more. I told myself because I was having a shitty day
That my sense was off
That I couldn’t see clearly
That when I said “There’s more” and you said “Not on my side” You were telling the truth
Maybe at that moment you were, maybe things just changed a little
Maybe Maybe Maybe Maybe
But I am going to bed.

Rule One, my Love.
Let me protect you.
Love is the silver bullet.

And nothing anyone (including you) can change the love that I have.

—  “Day 50: The Final Poem,” Poems to Beatrice.