Poem: I

Like the pricking of needles were your words;

Tiny swords of betrayal in every syllable you uttered

while I, the Stoic, listened with a steely countenance.

I, the Fool, had given of myself, my time, my soul

and you gained far more than I ever could.

I, the Cynic, resolved never to trust so haphazardly again

and I, the Hapless Romantic, pined for you.

The violence of my feeling was evident

in the force of my efforts to sever all ties.

No more convenient, accessible I.

Now you pursue me from afar

and I, the Idealist, am validated;

despite my rational justifications

and reasoned apathy toward you.

Admittedly, I smiled a little.

There was a modicum of warmth.

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