Winter

For the third time, I un-pin you from my heart.
I quickly take things down from the walls. I know their effect will be less than healing. I want to be done with this part, as the familiar landmarks away from you materialize. I want to hurt as little as possible.
But for you...oh for you I hope it is painful.
The most exquisite pain, mired with white balloons, hanging like ghosts. I hope the pink lines touched tenderly sear into your brain. I hope when you wake up they startle you.
Then you move to the sink. After looking into bleary eyes, weak from nightmares, haunted, I hope pink smudges and sqiggles saying "love you," are carved into your soul.
I hope the memory of me stays long, rotting instead of becoming stale, like everything in that condo eventually does.
I hope it sticks like globs of mucus in your lungs, or sticky, gritty tar adhered to your rib cage.
I want you to feel this deep. And painfully.
But I know you won't.
Because you are oblivious to the needs of others, hardened with time.
No, I can't love you anymore.