Cycle

It's a cycle.

Of compulsion.
Of terse replies.
Of the wondering.
Of the refusal to beg.
Of everything I didn't think you would become.

It's a break.

Of what we once were.
Of who we should have become.
Of your worst fears infecting my mind.
Of the best friend who can only take so much.

It's a recapture.

Of the hidden smiles and the carefully placed words.
Of all I have ever felt.
Of a rocky love.

It's the inability to admit.
And the way it ruins us.

It's the fact that there is no us.
The inversion of always have, always will.

It's the split in my psyche.
The crack in muscles pumping blood.

It's the creeping up.
Of a distancing, that old familiar friend.

It's the mountains and the desert.
And all the space in between.

It's what becomes all-consuming.
And soon to follow, all-destroying.

It's the clench of my frustrated fist.
And the tears of a girl who can cry no more.

It's the tireless effort, the push.
The lack of reaped reward, the refusal to give.

It's everything shorter.
And soon, I'm gone.