What if this is just how it ends—

no divine orchestration, no overture
yet to come, just the professional
silence between two people
who say they no longer love
each other, neither knowing if it’s true?
 
Is the euphoria of freedom worth
these self-imposed chains?
I dream of simple survival, growth
in the wet heat of summer.
This darkness is self inflicted.
 
When does the bearer 
of the wound become
the wound itself, given life?
I binge on these small
mouthfuls of infinity, the promise
of a hopelessness that stays.