History: Lover/Love

I.

You aren’t mine
anymore.
Your poems are puzzles
of other women’s faces.
I look for a part of me
but it isn’t there.
That used to be sad,
but when I think
of your jealous rages,
your drunken tirades,
your complete self-absorption,
I can’t believe
I gave you
the power I did.
You’re the Fidel
of my heart.
Your charisma
captivated me,
your impossible promises
gave me misguided hope.
I had to become
a refugee to see
that you had only one loyalty.

From the shores
of my new home
I can just make you out
on the horizon.
But now
you’re someone else’s
problem.

II.
Even though
you’ll always have that
place in my heart,
it’s not the same
and we know it.
We cry
when we have to admit it,
that there’s no going back,
there’s no forever for us.
All the sentimental things we said
or wrote,
the photographs,
are the chronicle of
a magnificent, fallen empire
that was laid to waste
by neglect and vandalism.
I want to forget,
but I don’t.
The ashes of Pompeii,
broken faces of Mayan Ruins,
memories of You and Me.
We can cry for them
but that won’t bring
the life back.
All we can do
is preserve every piece
that survived
and do our best
to prevent the tragedy
from repeating itself.
Isn’t that what history
is for?