I Hate the Fact that My Life is an Allusion

I hate the fact that you can go on
Without a minute’s thought about us,
Or how I’ve been doing since
That November midnight

I hate the fact that you can go on
And I cannot,
Because it has to be me
Who’s waiting, on the edge

I hate the fact that a single day hasn’t passed
That I hadn’t imagined that day we meet again,
And assure myself that it’ll come–
That you’re different from the rest

I hate the fact that I think about it so much
That I write poems to you everyday–
That I write poems you won’t get to read
And it’s always for the comsumption
Of my own mind

I hate the fact that I cannot admit
That this is my way to survive,
That you turned me into this–
A being of lines and verses
Breathing through words

I hate the fact that through all these
I’d still be waiting– an expendable, somehow
Set aside from your life
Yet coveted to be the center of others’

I hate the fact that my life right now
Prefectly alludes to someone else’s
And that I have to go through this– excrutiatiing
For the hope of goodness of the future

I hate the fact that out of the things I hate,
You would always be the one I love
And that I’ve accepted that my mind has surrendered
To the idea of love, and our faith in it.

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