He doesn't love me – never did.
My heart should now feel bruised and torn,
but it refuses to put on black,
and keeps the bright dress it has worn.
An empty hole where desire was;
a sunken pit in place of pain.
Through tearless eyes, I glimpse my clothes,
already drying from the rain.
I wonder why my eyes are dry,
or why they see his face so plain,
or why they don't reflect his charms
on prisms crowded in my brain.
Things are starting to look pink
when yesterday they all were grey,
but his eyes are only half as green,
and all their spark has passed away.
And when he smiles, it's cold and dark –
each tooth has lost its sharpened bite
that used to cleave into my heart
like a knight's bright sword of red and white.
I miss the fire he used to light
that warmed my heart, but also burned.
I miss the agony of love,
the glorious pain of being spurned.
But once love's gone, it never was there;
each trace of him has left my mind,
without a clue of what he was,
or why I thought him so divine.
He's burned the pictures that I took
to capture every perfect pose.
He's smashed my sorrow-plated ring,
its plastic silvered by my woes.
The golden frames are bare and plain,
and seem to fade away to brass.
The silver fragments are not sharp,
too small for any pricks to last.
I've tried to call him back to me,
but each plea drives him more away.
My heart is mute, devoid of words –
it has no farewell speech to say.