The path was very well known.
It all started in the same way–
Tumultuous, rapturous love,
the blooming of hope,
countless sweaty nights.
The murmuring honey
rushing in vain.
The shivering ecstasy
Creased bed sheets.
I shared everything of mine.
I defied the warning again–
Abundance kills Love?
Then the messages became less.
I hoped in bated breath,
fingers crossed.
Prayed to all gods. sane and profane.
Capital or in small caps.
No, god. No. No. Not this time again.
But god is a man. A cruel grinning man.
History repeated itself.
At the age of thirty-five
I cannot cry as I did
after the first teenage break up.
I cannot slit my vein.
I cannot overdose on sleeping pills.
I just sobbed and walked away
with a heavy heart as I did after my
second, third, fourth or fifth break up.
Then on my birthday, his message pops up
He thanks me for acting so mature and for
behaving so cool, patting his own back
for not showing my nude pictures to anyone.
I wear a faint smile as I know how
predictable a man’s love is.
All follow the same route.
My break-up number six
copies the first one.
Moumita Alam is a poet from West Bengal. Her poetry collection The Musings of the Dark is available on Amazon.
Featured image: Kelly Sikkema / Unsplash