Moping About, All Melodrama and Comedown

Its all gone, and has been for at least a month (but somehow seeing the object of my most recent injury all cosy with someone else makes being dumped hurt all over again). No more champagne. Or strolling. Or shagging for days. Or watching Buffy. Or listening to Leonard Cohen. Or drinking tea. Or shopping for boy clothes. Or holding hands. Or those kisses. Or groping commando under camos. Or snuggling. Or flirtations across a crowded bar, or playing femme for the butch, or gentleman and the lady friend, or corset tightened and lacy knickers worn in anticipation and seduction. From adore to ignore. No pornographic text messages, no cheeky smiles when I walk through the door, silence at the end of the phone, cut off, abandoned, discarded, replaced. If only I knew I was missed, at least a little...

I leave you with photographs
Pictures of trickery
Stains on the carpet and
Stains on the memory
Songs about happiness
Murmured in dreams
When we both of us knew how the ending would be

- The Cure
'Disintegration'