Let it pass. Let it pass. Why wish for something you’ll never get? Wings on your back or a heart that can’t see you, can’t hear you knocking, can’t feel you scramble for an entrance. Let it pass. He’ll come to you one day, unbeknownst of himself perhaps, and you’ll know him by the clothes he wears, the way he holds his frayed hem and pulls at his laces nervously. Until then, if then, you can only let it pass. Let this one pass. It’s unattainable, impossible. It’s just shapes in the distance, colours you can’t name, lovers you can’t hold. Let it pass then roll yourself away. There is nothing you can do. There is nothing, you can do better to yourself than wishing for his love, all the pieces of yourself you gave to him; he ate them, and he you left standing, bleeding, barely healing, hurting, open, stolen, pieces others would have given back; upholstered. He’s not for you. He’s not, for you to hold yourself together, that is bold, that is brave, and it is woman; not insane. Take aim and fire yourself forward, warrior. Be that, the warrior. For you, love is pain. Love doesn’t love you. Love is a name, it’s a story that’s told, something that came from the history books, where it cannot be questioned, and none here have seen it, none now and none now. You’re running for love like a coward, a coward would be running for shelter from wolves, from wolves you are running for shelter and love is a wolf and you’re running and staring at all of love’s wolves, running straight into the pack of love’s wolves, you’re running and each of the cunning monstrosities lure you like prostitutes, why do you run to them? Running, as fast as you can, you can’t run much faster, you’re dying for love! You’re craving so hard that your body is caving! Aching so much that your poor mind is breaking! Running toward wolves! Wolves! All of it! Wolves! What’s making you do this! What’s making you do this! What’s making you run to a pack of love’s wolves!?