She says it’s not me, it’s her.
As if that’s supposed to make me feel better.
Now comes the part of all this I abhor,
the long, sluggish climb out of love.

Love is like quicksand,
it is inevitable and deathly strong.
The sheer thought of having to climb out
terrifies even the noblest of heart.

You hope to stay sinking in it forever,
Reveling in it as it covers your head,
invading your lungs,
drowning you in it’s pervasiveness.

I’ve lived in denial,
thinking that my soft-spoken manner,
my compliments,
my poetry,
my absolute devotion and attention,
my utter lack of typical asshole attitude,
my disdain for “manliness,”
my body even,
would be enough to tame her.

She tells me that she can’t keep that promise to me,
that temptation will win her over.
It’s a promise many never need to make,
one I shouldn’t have had to extract.

In the end, how do you argue with someone
who chooses the mere hint of temptation,
who chooses the slightest chance of another fuck,
who chooses any other possible man in the world but you?

The old adage goes, once a cheat, always a cheat.
I was naïve to think I was enough to change that.
It takes two to make this dance work.
Alas, we never got to dance.