The Summer That Never Came

If she was there for anything less than what became the outcome, she would have belonged to a fairy tale. Maybe our love was a bit to fierce. It became what it is, and could be nothing less.

We rushed into mighty despair. So it seemed our love was a bit like a catastrophe. Exchange “love” with “disaster”, and you are closer to the essence of what we became. In this case it wasn’t bloody, more like indifferent.

I do not want to hear more about love. What they call love is only superficial nonsense. True love is something far more rare. However, I do not want to hear about true love either. Give me nobility and transcendence.

They told us to love, but all we could do was to pretend. We became sick of love. We polished our ego instead, and what we called love was more like dysfunction. We took a troll to his cave and butchered it. That was our sexual appetite. That was our decline.

In hindsight I should properly have avoided her. It should have been clear at first that she was an annoying bitch. Lust provided the only motive for not walking away. Her obnoxious talk about things that didn’t matter.

This little poem that I wrote for her. It should have been clear at first that we were destined to ruin. The summer that never came.

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