P.S. I don’t love you.

When I gave you that book

I gave you more than I could

And who knew

what future held

But I believed in us

And it went without saying

that I loved you

more than you deserved

I didn’t know what to do

When you said you couldn’t meet me

on your birthday, that you had to go away

I trusted your eyes, those words,

and when you were gone

I ransacked every place I could

to get the best gift there was

And I happened by this book

which had my heart, my life

I wrapped it with all my love

as I wrote ‘To the best I know, the best of me’

I wondered what you were doing

as I stopped by your place

to surprise you before you left

but what an irony

when I was given a surprise myself

by your gardener, a seventy year oldie

seems, you’d never left, nor were going to

that you had a grand party

with friends and ex-lovers too

I was offered a ride that I promptly denied

with rage in my head and tears in my eyes

I turned to leave

but not before I parted with what I had to give

I asked your gardener for a penly favor

he said he had none and gave me a pencil

One last look beyond the shimmering parapet

realising not everything that glitters is gold

I tore off the foolish display of my affections

and signed ‘P. S. I don’t love you’, instead.

~~~~~

Asha Seth

22 Replies to “P.S. I don’t love you.”

“I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions.” ― James A. Michener

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