Love is here to End

Once the love is spent,

and the heartbeats turned to

screeching summer

Treat him dead.

 

There is no point

in opening your bosom

to the skies

and weighing down

in some anticipated longings.

 

Its not love, my dear

But your trampled ego

that makes you helpless,

to get an edge over those ill fed hours

you wasted, over some worthless parasite.

 

Forget what went by,

like footmarks after a rain

History is, after all,

a selective remembering.