The irony is maddening.

The slight of hand that hides

how your every breath

used to curse the day you met.

How you used to watch him asleep in your bed

oblivious to the torment left in his fuckwitted wake

and you’d imagine him with a pillow over his face

and your hands holding it there.

Smiling.

Relishing the idea of never having to put up with his

shit again.

And yet,

the thought of him leaving,

going on, able to breath,to live and smile without you,

the fear you will become a memory

resigned to his past, carelessly labelled

a time he once went through,

floors you,

makes you hesitate

and pretend to forget the

lonliness

of

1 and 1

never making

we.