End of the day, days from then, moments from now – reached the end of the timeline there, 
There was always going to be the 
The you of you, the men of you, the echoes after you, 
Me getting over you, the end of that,

That was always gonna happen. At least I thought.
It’ll be him who has me to get rid of;

I mean you,

I mean us,

and your burner IG accounts

Catch yourself up enough to bite you’re the one who winds up tangled. 

Catch yourself tangled up enough you learn how to cut through the rope. 

Unlike that of a fisherman’s, 
Not nylon, 
Not of anything that cannot decompose. 
But of flesh
And all its rotting
The inevitable promise of the mortal. 
Of a name. 
Of a family man now off to fetch a new visage, another one for himself. 

I don’t blame you.
That’s selfish and elementary. 
The weight bears on my lungs. Close above my heart, 
Like the barren longing for his arms without him, 
Or the smell of him when I try to forget yours,
(despite yours being equated to soup)
The jokes he laughed at versus the ones you didn’t. 
The jabs you made versus the one he never could. 
And now its him on the chopping block, 
The selfishness of me; Lord, 
Allowing yourself into me, allowing you to stay,
The selfishness of me; Lord,
Allowing myself onto him, allowing him to go. 

Some deserve the grave, and others the world, gimme Purgatorio. 
But him and unlike you, 
Deserves the neither of us. 
The stupidity of course, 
Beyond you, I always known, said I ‘Should’ve known,’
The allowed lingering of you. 

Your perseverance isn’t an accolade you ought to boast on your pinned chest, 
A weakness that has only come from being unable being to unbar myself of the majesty and tragedy of you, 

And rather than ridding my grief of you once and for all,

Have surrendered to the cop-easy entry of band-aiding all the ways my everything of you meant your every day for you,
I’ve crushed love because of you,
And that’s entirely my fault.
Hiding behind your burners,
and still,
for some tormented reason,
still hiding behind some wall of my heart forever stained
With your smell of soup
so long as I refuse to mop it off once and for all.

perhaps, per chance,
some stains are permanent,
only over time are they forgotten, nay, tolerated.