She, 

 is not yet an old soul. Such apprenticeship has not yet begun.

Studiously she watches as you cite your second hand wisdom. 

Bested by her innocence,  such familiar nostalgia withers like the thick layer of dust it hides beneath.

Shaken and bruised like brine against an ice cube,  the vermouth of your ideals is poured into an ill fitting glass.

Left feeling dirty you turn to dry wit and hide behind a shroud of satire,  as though irony could replace the cold feeling of insurmountable insecurity.

 

Only questions remain, where fond memories should stand.

A bitter aftertaste and a palpable, growing tumor where once your throat did reside. 

Piteously she patronises you with seemingly false compassion, all the while taking in every last detail of the moment. 

Her innocence and irreverence, pitched against your experience and desperate hope.

 

Hatred would feel so much better now, but escapes your grasp. 

An unjustifiable longing to find fault and grasp at imperfections leaves you destitute in undeserved despair.

Clutching violently at vile  vocabulary in total contrast of every adjective your savaged soul wishes to recall. 

Just as skin misses skin so does mind miss mind and heart miss... 

What so  advertantly could not have been. 

 

Interspersed with thoughts of anger are memories, meadows and mornings, kisses in kitchens, dreams and duvets, songs and sweetness.

And as she slips away with last goodbye that you cannot stall for long enough with commentary, questions and insults. 

And as she leaves despite your cries, your calls, your cruelty, exacted only to prolong this final farewell for every desperate moment.

And as she turns, tearfully, walks woefully away and you seek that one glimmering morsel of remorse that suggests persuasion could permit a change of heart. 

 

You're left with nothing but disdain for she sees the disdain that he feels for he.