you corner me five days after the breakup,

a concerned look in your eyes as you ask me how I’ve been.

you’re waiting for a eulogy

to the end of what I thought was forever.

you stand with the false sincerity of a priest

because you, here with me, is an almsgiving,

a charity.

if I had even an ounce of expectation,

I would tell you about the time I walked

alone on a chilly night.

the air promising rain as I trudged across an unfamiliar path,

a quest for the saccharine taste of revelries.

I would tell you how I could not contain my energy

in the company of the girls who would offer me poison.

I would tell you how the rain started falling the second I turned back

and how the sugar tasted like sickness in my mouth.

I would tell you how I felt the warmth of the cocoa in my hands,

how I knew it was too hot for me to bear.

I would tell you I was so desperate and

so chilled to the core that I drank it anyway,

the searing pain leaving a lasting imprint on my tongue.

I would tell you how I regretted it as soon as I felt it,

that the heat didn’t taste like salvation,

and that it stayed with me for days.

but I don’t tell you any of this.

you don’t deserve clarity. you don’t deserve

to know what exactly you were to me.

so I tell you I’m okay.

the taste of you is still on my tongue,

but the rain has started to die down,

and all things eventually fade away.