You're my Dorian Gray

God was not an option. He couldn’t help the sweater queen in her dire time of need. Praying wasn’t worth the energy to fold her hands; my hands. The licorice ropes of semi-sweet artificial flavoring did more for the soul than monotone chanting ever could. That’s how gluttony makes birth, through doubt of the church. And I’m sorry to explain that I’m the repeat offender. Consider revising your semicolon usage. There’s a grammatical error in my strut and an arrest warrant pending for my confidence. Which is why I turned away from the idea of God. This isn’t ‘alcoholics anonymous’; I’m not required to surrender myself to anything but love. Love, that doesn’t exist anymore. It’s all condoms and doors, for now. Sperm and suicide, I guess. Shuffled responses, averted glares, and we’re stopping revolving windows in their tracks. We can’t slam them; they’re circumferential.

When I found the hope to care, it was too late. It was March in September-time. There’s a crackling pop of incendiary regret and I keep it under lock-in-key in my safety deposit box below the mattress. And even if I could play the piano, I would refrain from creating a ballad; need I be reminded by keys and tunes of how much I can’t bear being without you, now that I’ve had you. I don’t want to be alone. I’m having a difficult time losing you. Every time I seek out to find you, you just keep hiding again, like this is some perverted game. I don’t play that way. Consider this my white flag; I’m through with trying to salvage these feelings, where I’m the victim of the dreams you’re living out.

There are dugouts dedicated to us. Parking lots, too. Places where we met over and over again to the extent that we could be remembered. I know you do; but you can go on and pretend you don’t. There’s leniency in the empathy I have for you. I know you’re in pain, but I also know you don’t like to show it, as opposed to my methods of causing your unraveling. I loved you and love is what love does. Our love does not exist; therefore, love itself doesn’t either.

There is so much gorgeous beauty in how I lost her. From the rising action, to it's climax, and the lack of a resolution. It's pretty and feminine; therefore artistic and flirty. I should thank her, because everything what happened is what happened to me. People do change. Or, they become masterful at concealing their old ways. I like the change. It's romantic how there's two of her; the one I loved, and the one she is now. It's remarkable how similar, yet opposing their characteristics are. I find myself indifferent to version 2.0, that's not the one that captivated me. So why do I even dream of having her back, when she's a clumsy remodel of the girl I cherished? exactly. I don't. And I have finally come to terms that the original masterpiece that consumed me is just that; a portrait hanging within my memory. She doesn't exist in the real world, as a painting doesn't. She's a fleeting thought or whim. She's an impulse from a previously suppressed desire. I love that about her; both of her. I can carry her picture wherever I go, and it can be torturous at times, but also relieving. Sometimes, if I pretend the girl I fell in love with is still alive, I can survive the trivial pains in life. But that's all it is; pretending. Because she is gone forever. And I couldn't be happier that I have the power to preserve her in my mind for even longer than forever, while the real girl, the true physical manifestation of my adulterous obsession, continues to pursue a meaningless sequence of existence, I have her previous self, making history in my brain. No one can ever take that from me. Not even her; either of her.