The Future of an Illusion

As always, in the days before you arrive, I fall ill. 

A premonitory sign of the melancholy to come,   

Some part of me is staging an intervention.   

But doubled over, I double down,   

I tell myself it will be all worth it: 'at least', I say,   

'I will know I am alive'. 

I think all this whilst knowing that you're not coming for me,   

That you want to talk about her.   

I see your pain and listen as generously as I can, 

Telling you what I know you need to hear.   

I know this is going to hurt,   

That I am breaking my own heart with this compulsion. 

I remind myself that even when the heart wants 

What the heart wants,   

When the body finds its primordial other,   

The oceanic certainty of love can still feel like death,   

And that you will destroy what you love most   

Just to feel safe. 

Sitting this close to you, 

My body behaves as she always does -   

Treacherously. 

Even though I know by now the price,   

I don't try to tame the force of her remembering.   

It's a wager I'm certain to lose;   

The die already cast,   

A busted flush.   

She runs rampage;   

It's a death ride now, and I know it,   

But I will her on regardless for a momentary glimpse of   

The future of my illusion.