I think I might have to kill
all traces of your memory.
There, then, I'll find the skill
to inhale, ex- more evenly.
Those summer days were spent upon
dried dirt and weeds; together, watched
the clouds stroll by and then move on
with hello, goodbye in silence; caught
fireflies and built holding cells
inside our hearts. And now, I will
be forced to silence their yellow bells.
Yes, it seems I will have to kill
those bugs and withering weeds. The clouds
will pour and quench my old, whole heart--
the way it was before its shroud--
the cunning choices of my love, smart
enough for double standards. But now,
looking upon you in the aftermath,
I see not fresh skin, nor noble brow,
but how instead you will face the wrath
of an extermination. Sweep the files
through and through. Without a note
to check "Yes or No," or multiple trials.
I have my fingers around the throat
of a scissor-slaying betraying fiend,
with nails dug in. This time, it's serious.
My memory's database is successfully screened,
I am on board. And you, deleterious,
will no longer harm me. I've intervened.