I realized you're my first boyfriend today, yet it's already been over for months. I finally own up to it, and I've already strangled it with my own denial of its existence.

This, whatever it has been, was placed in my hand like the cliché butterfly that didn't fly away, and I managed not to choke it by holding it too dear. Instead I tore its wings by holding it cooly away from me (you froze there), my fingers and mind prodding and analytical as always.

This, whatever it was, became a loveless marriage, and a forgotten child, too quickly, with my inability to look you in the eyes when you'd try and hold me. We were two fools trying to hold each other, without ever touching the other.

You- so guarded and tormented, the long-suffering poet without the poems, only the dying in your eyes to prove yourself of their blood. I was always waiting to fulfill the movies, to kiss when I was reminded of "how beautiful the world can be," and you showed me this and took me there every day, but you never seemed to see it as well. Eyeing me with eyes that have lost their appreciation for the beauty of life.

Me- holding you to the impossible measurements; always thinking of the other "first." Oh, how blind to finally see I was never anything to him.

So we continue to dance with invisible partners, as we did before, thinking we were in each others arms.

In your mind, I probably waltz on, as the bright chipper gem that always seemed glassy with disappointment or anger. (I don't know if I can tell you how that was never your fault, how could you help when you carried and apologized for another's transgressions?)

I'm dancing with myself now, to persuade and twirl my mind towards understanding and acceptance of this flat ending. The unspectacular demise of an unspectacular romance.