How cruel it is that everything must have an opposite,
An undeniable result of our own need to categorize,
Polarize, hypothesize why one thing must lead to another,
An inextricable link between two things
That might as well have no connection.
For how could the unabashed, unstoppable love that
We clasped so tight slip away into the awkward shuffle
That now exists, a shadow of our former selves,
Of our former life together?
This feeling is not opposite. It is of an entirely different realm
Where we do not exist as we, where being alone
Has become a travesty of self-respect and feminism
When all I want to do is fall into your arms.
I’m not weak, but I’m sure as hell not strong either,
Trembling under the weight of what it once meant to be perfect,
The statue of everyone’s expectations gone amiss.
So what is this then, this nothing?
It is not opposite, but it is not us.
It is undefinable, as are most incidents in life,
A sorry reaction to incredulously sorry times.