Literature
Mourning the Imagined
It's an exquisite sort of agony,
seeing Him with Her.
The slight stuttering beat of the heart,
The churning of the stomach,
The pressure of stubbornly pursed lips,
The steady drum beat in the mind,
Stupid, Stupid, Stupid.
Mourning the loss,
of that which was never mine,
Dreaming up what-ifs
and should-have-beens,
While insistent reality
tries to stuff everything
back into its box.