Game Over. A poem.

I’ve tried to forget you
(I don’t want to forget you).
My emotions lay on the table
like spilt wine;
I tried to lick them up
in a desperate alcoholic binge,
without a care for my fellow
patrons’ regard.

Why are you fading from my mind,
like an Alzheimer memory,
like the seaside whispers
of a shell, broken to
pieces.

I’ve betrayed me, so.

I’ve
let
you
go.

I should let slip the
dogs of war
to chew on my weary bones,
to remind me that I’m just a
lonely man,
that you’re just a
lonely woman
and that soon you’ll be

gone.

Swept off your feet
by some new broom,
who’ll sweep up the dust
of my passing,
and soon,
every trace of my passage
will be polished from the wood
of your floors,
as they rightly should.

A fitting end for the man with
no name,
who in the end, was purely an amateur
trying to play
in a professional’s game.

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