Succeeding in Heartbreak

I will not shed cliche tears,
Instead
I will try mixing different proportions of milk, cream, coffee, chocolate and cinnamon too
I will cook, prepare my own meals, not spend a dime on eating out;

I will not reminisce about the past
Instead
I will dip my hands in paint, doodle the loneliness away;

I will not eat ice cream and watch friends or a silly rom-com.
Instead
I will watch the ‘Schindler’s list’, ‘A beautiful Mind’ and ‘Fight Club’ maybe
And more, which they say one must;
We could talk about movies then, long conversations
And not the ones which go like:
You : “Hi, have you seen the Perks of being a Wallflower?”
Me: “Yes I have. I really liked that movie.”
”You: “So did I.
Me: “Hmm.”
You: “Hmm.”
I won’t check my phone for text messages. Let them pile up;
A large number will increase the probability of one being from you,
I will not use my phone much; Only when mom calls.

I won’t get drunk and rant my mess away
Instead
I quit drinking; it’s been a month already.
I plan on not drinking for a long time now,
But maybe celebrate the day you return with champagne. Or vodka.
Champagne is pricey.

I will write to you,
I’ll write often;
Instead
I will work on my book:
I’ll mention you in the acknowledgements
Like I promised.
When you come back, we will have a lot to talk about;
When you come back, I will have a lot of stories to tell;
I hope you do too;

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Smudges of ink and mud.

The wind whispers secrets from across the oceans. Percolating to my roots,

A lover’s spat, giggling teens, a war and squeaky babies,

Casual banter, alcohol, hash, I’ve seen them fighting with shadows,

Convincing they’re worth following;

Hands clutching bottle mouths like edges of stars,

Sunshine, teeth, comets and blood;

Dew drops, acid, tears and sweat,

I’m not meant for salt, his least favorite word is pansy, he doesn’t mind gay,

Hers is almost;

Poetry, prose, fiction, honey, butterflies and scissors,

Axe, dogs and men and trampled upon, spattered;

With mud and paint, I’ve known it all;

Jumbled thoughts, I hide behind metaphors,

Music, beats and rhythmic sobs.

When a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.

If a dresser in your room contains his shades, break them,
If that random character who describes the scenery has his gait, kill him,
If he tells you he loves you even before he’s met you, it’s a trap,
If he refuses to let you pay for lunch, insult him, in front of the whole cafe,
If he refuses to see you off at the airport, get on that flight and never come back,
If the book you gave him when you first met, lies somewhere at the back of his wardrobe, demand it back;
Save it for your daughter. Tell her about him;
If he’s afraid of dogs, leave him,
If he reminds you of how your grandpa died, tell him to fuck himself;
Yes, kill him in all your prose,
If he lets you go, leave;
Kiss new people until the touch of his lips wears off,
Take a shower, dust him off,
Scrub away every bit of him, scrub till your skin begins to chaf,
Chop your hair or get dreads,
Wear that eyeliner, support a blue lip;
But never take him back.