Kismet

This is where I break and you get to watch the shattering.

Ugly, convulsive, repugnant dismemberment.

Eyes hollow. Stomach sour. Chest aching.

Empty.

The warning signs were availability and kindred attraction.

Magnetism, coupled with life-giving denial.

Sudden, as cresting the initial ascent of a coaster.

Escalating.

Breath-taking.

Dizzying.

Heart-stopping.

Racing.

Knee-collapsing.

Squirming.

Belly-flipping.

Burning.

Risk-taking.

Electric.

An unforeseen, unearthed urge turned

Carnal. Wanton. Devouring.

And then…

Selfish. Impossible. Unhealthy.

But was it, really?

It smelled more like entanglement and grief.

Pregnant with malaise and self-flagellation for

every side-glance and warm silence,

every open door and intimate detail,

every walk in the rain,

every happenstance hunger pang,

every lie to the spouses,

every perception since ... forever.

Whatever day that was. Not long ago.

This is where I pitifully swat at

each reckless, remorseless, witty innuendo,

each omission of truth,

each image on a subconscious loop,

each veiled conversation,

each dutifully chivalrous act.

There is nothing to show for anything.

It did happen, right?

I'm not imagining it, am I?

It was real, wasn't it?

Shhhhhhhh. We can't tell. Time heals.

This sensation - the constant questioning - must be what stirs insanity.

crushing doubt

I never considered myself weak.

I am not her: the unhinged person with unsettling intentions.

stunned humiliation

I never considered myself illusionary.

This is where I splinter and wonder which part of me is intended as the whole and which parts of me are the embedded glass-like shards you needled free to hold on to your everything.

I pray -- for you -- she is.

Everything.

You broke me. And I let you.