I don’t remember when

I stopped loving him,

the first heartbeat
that rang hollow,

first glance at a stranger.

It may have been before

the vows, or, perhaps,

in the wake of the aftermath.

It could have been, after all,
a simple illusion, the love

after the first love, the dash

of reality after the dream dies.

It might have been a lie I lived

through births and deaths, a

crystal lie riddled with tiny cracks

where small fissures of truth

opened up, distorting the view

from within or without.

I don’t remember when emotion

was neutralized, when it didn’t matter

anymore that I don’t remember.