Tag: poetry

The dregs of my coffee
are far too sweet,
distasteful,
what an experience,
wholly bittersweet.
 
Here I am reminded of,
here I am taken back,
to the years in which
I fervently chased,

and received nothing in return,
my efforts proved an utter waste -
this is sheer fact,
no sense of it could I make.

I won’t reveal him completely,
how untoward that would be,
although one thing I will say is,
he pulled the wool over my eyes
as I dreamed.
 
Dreamed of a love
so pure,
of true affection,
unconditional acceptance,
reverence,
devotion,
I should have tried introspection.
 
This man revealed himself
as a cowardly, dastardly boy
only out to take
what he could control:
my heart,
my essence,
my eyes.
 
Those cold winter’s nights
when we would share
the same air
in quiet spaces,
breath visible in clouds,
at his beauty I would stare,
 
those balmy summer nights
when I would doll myself up
just for him,
when modesty was amiss,
of it I had no care.
 
His mischievous nature,
but, betrayal every time,
ignored the next day,
subsequent weeks, months,
still I wanted to make him mine.
 
How arduously I would
seek him out
until finally he was present again,
 
the nights,
my longing recognised,
though, likely to him,
my desperation, plain to see.
 
He was like a magnetic force,
but I never gained anything from him,
the tired pattern of his
quick disappearances,
warranted deep despair within.
 
And when I finally discovered
his deception,
he had a fiancé, or at most, a wife,
 
my feelings turned,
furious, seething anger,
I beseeched,
begging to be heard,
I then vowed to destroy this former prize.
 
But who am I to wreak havoc
on another person’s life?
At the time, it felt justified,
so, revelations to his other,
 
but she refused to believe
or even dare recognise,
my screenshots to her inbox,
they held no power.
 
My task was complete,
but I apologised over and over,
ironic panic at the idea of never again
having him in my life,
 
the guilt was enormous,
but surely, I’d performed the right thing,
she needed to know,
that her man was not so upstanding,
 
of his misdeeds she surely
would not have
learned of these
from him.
 
His phone number finally changed
sometime thereafter,
was it possible I was not
his only secretive ‘other’?
 
His philandering,
perhaps upon many women
he’d honed these skills,
the craft, the art,
of disrespect, dishonour, 
and uncommitted thrills.
  
I grew more careful
with my heart,
who would clasp it,
what I would give,
 
while he lived,
swum in adultery,
and I believe he felt not
one ounce of sin.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. 
Image by Pexels from Pixabay
Music: "The Hardest Part", Jeremy Blake

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