Crisis

This brittle thing we had —
like lace gone to ash
from a slow burn.
Pretty thing,
but look at it twice
and it’s dust.
I don’t understand
why you had to turn it all
upside down —
was it something I said?
Something I did?
Something involving
how I didn’t feel like
worshipping your pointless cock
night and day?
Or,
like most things involving you,
did it have nothing to do with me
and everything to do with
the dissatisfaction you’ve felt
since crossing some invisible,
unbearable line
into your middle years?

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