The Perfect Date
- artbycupid
- May 6
- 2 min read
*Written in poetic fashion.
The darkest, saddest truth of love is that it is
not fair. Not even to the kindest of us. It feeds from
what you are willing to give, and it dissolves despite.
I’ve had my share of trysts. Disappointments.
All different in some way, yet similar
due to their great capacity for failure.
And still, my heart remains to linger
on the sharp sting of your singular
rejection. I am no stranger to it.
But only you have evoked a pain
so potent. So I must assume this is
love, lost and shattered through me.
The road to you is an omen. Each
towering oak stands in jury along the
asphalt, aligned like the bars of a cage.
Which part of this was pretend? Perfect
love should bear no fracture, if I am
made in the image of your desire.
You told me so, along with other promises,
which were broken the moment
they birthed from your offending lips.
I am taunted by those lips, and
the image thereof pierces through
my vision with each heavy knock.
I’m startled by the open door. Your
expression at my arrival was morbid,
but no matter. Life may surprise us all.
“Can I come in?”
A speechless nod. As I am lead to the kitchen, you
glance behind you. This is the part when I hold back
a smile. Let’s pretend you’ve caught me.
Let’s pretend you know what comes next, so
that’s why you don’t hide the pair of wine glasses
festively arranged around a vibrant bouquet.
In fact, you look directly at them. Then at me.
I am taunted again, drawn to your pursed lips,
then to your folded arms. Your furious brows.
Lightning strikes from your mouth.
“I don’t want you here.”
I am struck in the center of my chest. Venom
pours from the wound. The burning is what
moves me, reminding me of my intention.
I play along and you too are struck. Red ink
bleeds through the white linen of your
collar. The knife is snug in your neck.
These are your last moments, knees bent
to tile floor. You are still the hero somehow.
Fallen in tragic glory, like a paper plane.
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