Maybe We Never Were

Existing in ethereal mourning

far longer than we should have.

To wallow in the reliability of grief,

To seek comfort in its patterned trail,

Swaddling an inclination, long since warm,

in hopes of erratic revitalization,

Is to determine a love bound for nothingness.

Yet, a love bound for nothingness, I realize, was a love predetermined.

I told them that with you, I could dream.

They told me to take my head out of the clouds.

You said they didn’t understand us,

They told me I didn’t understand you.

But what is there to understand, other than a love predetermined?

Other than:

I understood who you were,

You did not.

They understood who you were,

I did not.

So our love, I realize, has forever resided in ethereal mourning, 

and will forever remain.

Our love, the adored child of mania, existed far longer than we should have.