Honestly, it doesn’t matter what caused the once-soft Tuscan sunset to cast a sharp bright shadow – Maybe his drummer clashed with your jazz, or you were faithfully building a life in Boston and he was in Arizona, dreaming of old ghostly lovers - it doesn’t matter. All you know is your Tiffany’s diamond looks cheaper than a charm bracelet from Claire’s. Your golden hour memories have the nauseating tinge of puke-mustard, seeds you once planted with optimism the pigeons ate, then crapped on your porch, and the sex is artificial vanilla – unnatural and bad. So you drink in the sunny Paris smiles of men not yet ruining your life Like anesthesia – easy to overdose. Every marriage ends in either death or Detroit wasteland - Details don’t matter; it’s all the same story.
Don’t worry – my marriage is not as broken as this poem would imply.