She Will Never Know
Poetry in free verse — from a forlorn lover to his lady who gave up too soon
She must have had fallen in love
at least a little
with me.
Otherwise,
why would she laugh with her eyes closed,
her head thrown back,
her mouth open as she fell to the bed,
out of breath with laughter,
but unable to stop?
Why would she laugh as if she was happy?
I see her Instagram posts these days —
she has over 12,000 followers,
she endorses products for money,
there is a confidence in her smile
that wasn’t there when I knew her.
She dresses better, in clothes that flatter her curves.
She has learned to add filters
and wear make-up-
to hide her flaws better now.
But it is her eyes I look at —
those depthless pools of brown
ringed in the darkest kohl —
how they shine,
but there is no laughter there.
It is her eyes that I look at —
always her eyes -
and they look a little
sad.
She must have had fallen in love
at least a little
with me.
Otherwise,
why would she fall asleep in my arms,
mouth open,
dripping drool on my sleeve,
forming a damp circle
of fabric darker than the rest of my t-shirt?
Why would she softly snore-
so comfortable, so safe
that I made her feel?
I see her pictures on Instagram these days -
all that make-up,
all those filters,
all those GIFs places strategically to hide her acne marks —
fail to hide those brown rings around her eyes
telling a story of a night she spent crying into her pillow,
in a bed gone cold
because her lover
didn’t care enough to come home.
She must have had fallen in love
at least a little
with me.
Otherwise,
why would she insist we pose for goofy selfies together,
where she smiled
with her tongue out
or her lips pouting into a stupid duck-face
or one eye closed in a naughty wink?
Why would she post them online
with declarations of a love that gave her butterflies,
about a person (me) that made her feel
she could be herself without being judged?
I see her stories on Instagram these days —
the ones she posts once in a very long time
with a man who must weigh twice as much as she does,
who puts a pudgy hand around her shoulder
in a way you would expect a man to embrace his wife —
dutiful,
proper,
and not at all affectionate.
I see the hesitation in her smile,
that moment of doubt in her eyes
the camera has managed to capture,
that makes her think twice before getting a picture together —
but she posts it even though she knows it’s not good
because everyone else does some PDA
and she has never learned how to hold her own
amid a crowd that makes it difficult
for a woman to follow her heart.
She must have had fallen in love
at least a little
with me.
Otherwise,
why would she cry more than I did
when she told me she had to let me go.
It wasn’t anything that I did wrong, she would insist,
shaking her head so hard, her hair flew to the side,
it’s her —
it’s all her fault —
she got greedy,
she got selfish,
and she murdered our perfect love
with her own hands.
I see her Instagram posts these days —
she no longer talks about sunsets or flowers.
She posts quotes about being sad and hiding it,
those, peppered with posts
about body sprays, lipsticks, and high-waist jeans —
the ones she is paid to endorse-
the ones that help her hide her true self.
But I follow her every step online, you see —
I see that story she deletes within one hour -
the one she thinks will reveal too much of her character.
I see them all
and I think
she is unhappy,
but because she forces her brain not to think about me
she will never know.
She will embrace the mediocrity the new man gives her
and accept it as the only happiness she deserves.
That “love” is too overrated,
and a fairy tale like ours couldn’t ever be possible.
She will not remember it could have been possible
had she not let it die.
I am unhappy our love is no longer there
but I accept it,
I am trying to move on.
She is unhappy too.
But, because she lies to herself,
she will never know.
If you liked this piece of work, you might be interested in my book of poems — Stolen Reflections: Some Stories Are Told in Verse.