He told me once that every day with me
was like a dream.
My heart should have sung,
but I thought only of what, with another,
might have been.
I wanted a life filled with joy and joking,
instead each day my small hopes were steadily broken.
I started to sleepwalk through the day,
it seemed the easiest to keep the pain at bay.
That overwhelming passion became just a mirage,
what we were chasing merely a reflective image.
How can it be that once we were so sure, so pure?
But for the adulterated mess inside me now
there is no cure.