I am waiting, impatiently
to lose the feeling.
It is taking too long.
Too many months,
too many long and wasted nights,
fighting you.

Sometimes I want revenge,
other times I am more forgiving.
Sometimes I am condemned,
other times I am forgiven.
Mostly, though,
I hunt for you.
I speed through the night with dripping teeth
and snarling hurt,
howling and screeching and clawing at the earth,
catching your scent now and then,
but the trail always goes cold in the end.

This week I am sensible and distant,
moving on.
I do not linger on the past.
I do not make demands.

Next week I will be desperate and frantic,
calling out for you,
seeking you in every moment.
I will collapse at the first memory
and limp home miserably,
wishing that the world was not the world.

You asked me once if I wished I'd never met you.
I think, perhaps, I am getting there.
Sometimes I almost hate you,
my love.