Sundays wasted on bad icecream

Sundays spent on bad icecream is a bad poem written at the verge of a day that proved waiting is terrifying, especially when there is nothing to wait for.
Ultimatums are like giant pills you cannot swallow, and no matter how bright the time, it is as if some colour drained out of everything.

Tiramisu flavoured ice cream is a legend, I had once had the misfortune of tasting as a child.
This story is about a person who was as unwanted, illusive, ingratiating and helplessly magnetic. A story about someone who took over my life in the span of half a year,
Somehow, as if I were addicted to Tiramisu flavoured Ice cream.

I hate that I spent my sunday
With a big hole in my chest,
Feeling time melt
Tiramisu Icecream on my fingers
Unwilling to put them to my lips
Hesitant at throwing it all away.

I hate that my Sunday was
Spent waiting,
For a resolution I cannot have
Steeped in the loss of what is invisible
And the rupture of a silence
That was better left pregnant.

I hate that my Sunday
Was not like every other one I had
Ever since I have known you,
Where I despised
The constant ridiculous arguments
Dotted peppermint like with confessions,

Truth is too cold sometimes
For one to survive in.

I hate that my sunday leaves,
In another half hour,
Marking a new epoch so un-dramatically
Where you are no longer
Transparent, against my consciousness
The wall sits alone,
Like always.

I hate how you taste
Like Tiramisu Icecream,
This mildly exotic flavour
Or oysters,
or familiarity with a stranger
During a zombie apocalypse.

My mind works just fine,
well oiled cogs,
Somewhere a blackhole into another universe has opened up
In the void of all the details
Of you that lives inside me.
Wormwood falls from the sky.

You cough, an old man now,
I cannot meet your eyes,
I hate that I had wasted so many Sundays on you.
I hate that I cannot waste one more.

The prophecy was for mutually assured destruction,
The fate was disruption,

My pills spilled on the bedroom floor
And the Last Whiskey lets you collapse in on yourself
Inflate, conquer
I splutter,
In a corner,
Then, go out at last
‘Not with a bang,
But with a whimper.’


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