Funeral.

You watch as the casket is lowered into the ground,

Some people congratulating you,

Some sobbing;

But all you do is watch as the flowers on top of the casket are slowly buried by the shadow of the still-open grave.

A tragically sunny day for such an occasion.

You don’t feel much, you don’t understand why you’re there exactly.

You don’t understand why you’re so comfortably numb.

Little do you know, the grave is your own.

And He,

Didn’t bother to show.

So you stand there, not alone,

But you don’t feel consoled by the pats on the back and sorry eyebrows.

“It’s okay, though,”

You say

Because you’re convinced you don’t need consolation.

You’ll understand eventually,

Whether it be in a couple months or in twenty years.

That is when you’ll take advantage of the consolation and casseroles delivered to your doorstep.

Because dear,

You are a victim of something bigger than yourself:

You are a victim of possession.

You could have prevented it, but you let your guard down;

And now you mourn.

I beg you,

Don’t mourn for his absence,

Mourn for your own death

Mourn because you died for the sake of someone not deserving of your gaze.

But at least he who surprised you by his insincerity is gone now.

Do not let him control you now,

He’s had his time,

And now it’s time to let him die.

So, I invite you to raise your glass

To the death of romance

And the resurrection of it’s victims.