My thoughts of you are a fleeting breath,
one that whispers softly of fondness and memory.
Soon it dissipates, and in its place molecules form;
molecules of actualities, not ideals.
They speak of hardships and troubled times.
When they accumulate they choke me like our love,
a carbon monoxide of hate and disdain fills my lungs.
In a hallucination I see the truth; we weren't anything.

If we weren't anything, then why does it hurt so much?
Does this lack of oxygen trick my memories of the past,
or does it bring clarity? Maybe it just causes this ache.
The depravity of oxygen made me happy, happy not to think.
And when it left, my head and heart hurt,
they were trying to bring life back into my dying body.