How many goodbyes will it take until you’re gone?

I do not weep on the banks of the Manzanares,

Nor desperately pray for a glimpse of your barge,

Unfurling it’s sails and billowing around the riverbend.

 

For August has come and gone,

After you left me the rainy season,

And I must reap another harvest alone.

 

I do wonder in sleepless nights, however,

After insomnia has claimed the space around the bed we shared,

If you met an olive-skinned girl who claimed your heart.

 

Does she have you lost at sea,

Your language-less love, your foreign mistress,

Your wandering soul.

 

As futile as it is, I hope for you,

I hope that you do not think of me, as I do you,

Even though I know that you always will.

 

And, I do not want you back,

Because you’re perfect as a missed opportunity,

An explosively lonely thought on a still morning.

 

You are the stitch I miss when patching up my jeans,

The droop of my eye-lid in an elsewise perfect photograph,

The misplaced semicolon, that should’ve been a dash anyhow.

 

You’re the talisman that I need to conjure the illusion that it’s okay,

Even though I am not happy,

And I know that you aren’t either.

 

But what fulfillment can contentedness bring,

When I can placate myself with unspilled tears,

Flowing along the riverbend?

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