many a splendoured thing

This is  a pretty shitty piece, about something fucking awful.
So, note: today there will be no lyrical descriptions.
Nothing about the way the grey light spread out cold.
I wasn't really considering that. Not on a windy Sunday.
Instead (when it happened), my thinking bristled with cliches
Like, I can't believe this, this is fucked, how disgusting,
this is completely ridiculous, I'm speechless.
I didn't know then, the way these things wait
sly behind dark-glassed windows, wearing malicious grins,
ready to bad-news-blindside you on ordinary afternoons

Someone died that day, and I know you'll disagree.
"She's still alive." She's not though, not to me.
That's the horor of her death. It is deeper than dying
Despite being dead, she'll keep walking and talking
Text you sometimes. Ask you to have brunch on King St,
thinking you've forgiven, or been fooled back into believing,
But here is what I know: Love is canny. Love is sly.
And love hates you. Love just means getting fucked.
Over and over and over again, and then it's you,
deciding to go back for one last fucking. Not the good kind.

You're gonna burn your tongue on someone. It'll scar.
Take away the shiny stuff, the bits that believe in love
It will be ending after ending, and a failing,
and a always wondering if anything's coming after.
Don't despair though. There's something to be had out of it:
You will understand the lie of love at last.
This is what the lie is, so listen:
People are not who they say they are.
And they are not who you think they are.
They are not who they think they are, either.
They never are. They never are.