An Epistle to Mr. Ex-Flame

For me, Amortentia smelled of pancakes, of petrichor, of the morning dew,

And that ingratiating fragrance of charm-infused arrogance that I loved to breathe off you.

Remember that room filled with cigarette smoke, a crate of chilled beer?

 The cacophony of my rebukes and how you'd ceased to lend an ear?

 

We've spent aimless hours together, building houses of cards, 

We've stargazed all night, as we recited couplets by our favourite bards. 

We've watched the fault lines appear, felt the ground shift under our feet,

We've weathered storms we never thought we'd have to greet. 

'Sorting this out' would've been putting a band-aid on a third-degree burn, 

Trying as we did, with all our might. 

Until we realised that all we'd been able to earn

Was memories that would inevitably keep up awake at night. 

We were arranging urns of blossoms on the table of a burning house,

As though no one else could see the vicious flames we were trying to douse.

Even as your chaotically disorganised sock drawer

Housed umpteen laundry lists and cheesy messages, all in my cramped, illegible script,

As your eyes scrutinised my face, that'd gone from angry to resigned to dour,

My feelings ran amok within, tucking insecurities, grudges into some inaccessible crypt. 

The wood on your desk bears my delusional etchings, 

Your eyes bear pieces of my soul,

But I've left to traverse unknown roads, to scan new horizons, trudging,

Even as my feet bleed, my heart hopes that someday, I shall be whole.