Drowning sorrows in drink,
Not alcohol; coffee.
Forcing myself awake
Night after night, finding
something to do;
Never myself.

Trying always to forget,
Through games, sleep, work;
The curse being the more
I try, the more I think
Of her, of then, of us.

Poems only serve to wound
Further, yet I write still,
Slowly cutting off larger,
Larger pieces of myself,
To try to forget.

Love is a fickle thing,
When it wants to be.
Sometimes it lingers on,
Long after it’s welcome.
Hurting, forcing memories.

Just when I accept
It, it leaves, hides
Where I cannot find it
in order to return
When I least suspect.