As if you were a patient etherized upon my table, I sliced through your heart with my scalpel and tore your heart apart.
Never before had I left a soul so inconsolable.
No matter how many times my gut writhes in torment, my chest aches in regret, or my will weakens in despair, I repeat in my mind’s eye your cry Why?
Why is profoundly difficult in its simplicity.
On the simple side of the spectrum, my affections for you had abandoned me:
my desire and interest in you washed away slowly under the constant gloomy German rain.
There was no rhyme or reason,
just a changing of the season.
On the difficult side I was a cruel surgeon.
The procedure was necessary despite it destroying you, but I made a grave error;
I did it over text to your terror.
However, I wasn’t an emotionless surgeon.
I was Scared, Anxious, and Disconsolate,
But I imagine that did not even come close to approaching your pain.
The procedure was botched, and left you with inconceivable heart strain.
I didn’t mean to cut you so deep,
But I managed to do so without a peep.
I’m sorry for incising your heart without knowing how to suture it back together.
I’m sorry for making you care about some imbecilic wannabe surgeon.
I’m sorry it had to end, and I couldn’t look you in the eye while doing it.
I didn’t want to cut your heart apart
But my heart wasn’t doing its part.
Your Ex-Average White Boy