HOW each heartbreak always feels like the last.

Each leaving lover the last to disappear.

“I can’t believe,” I say in a tone marked by quiet disbelief, “I can’t believe this has happened again.”

Because the last time I was almost this…

Almost this shell shocked. This surprised.

And the last time I thought, well at least the worst is over- there’s no way this will happen again – not this way, not exactly.

But now that it has, disbelief has turned to recognition. Recognition into fear.

Because to know the pattern is not to stop it.

And how can I be sure

Next time…

What’s real?

Even when it ends- this imaginary attachment – even when we two disentangle and detach. How will I know he won’t wholly disappear? Leave me crazy for the question, my feelings, and the reality they won’t fit into.

The rhyme I can’t quite muster:

Old lovers – each man a body more than I’d like to say-

Answer me nothing before they go away.

Was he ever there in my bed, body, and brain?

Or is it I who am wholly insane?

Great artists walk a sliver sized edge between reason and madness,

Wobble on the tightrope of elation and sadness.

And if such is true,

Thanks to disappearing players,

I’ve learned well the art of peeling my own layers.

I ask not because I loved. Though, maybe I did.

But because I know I can. Ask. And love.

And because I thought I could up to the moment I tumbled so unexpectedly from the arms of your affection. And looked around and realized you were really gone for good.