Ides of March

I am notorious in my dedication; I am notorious in my infamy. I have taken the bits of me during the best of me and kept them hidden from you. I tried to keep myself from slipping; I think I have slipped twelve times. I tried to catch you from falling; I think I tried fifteen times. I tried to keep us from breaking; I think we broke twenty-three times. The compromises we made became nonexistent as if they never existed. We dance on the edges, but we remained there. The fire burns on paper but runs away in its hesitation. I am made out of two parts, too many parts. More than I imagine us being one, I keep believing that I am not one without you. Before you, I was nothing, and since you, I am something. I am foretelling all of the dangers we will come to repeat. I don’t think I am a seer, rather just playing on the folly of déjà vu. I try to balance the odds of surviving our prophecies, but I think I slipped twelve times too much. I am warning you to be careful; I am warning you of your fate. You ask me for my thoughts, but you’re lost in your own. You’re running out the door, headfirst into the ides of March, marching out into the bits of us that we thought we destroyed. The weather turns malevolent now, we’re in a tornado now, and we’re shackled between lightning and thunder now. I am screaming, I am pleading — return, return before you make a fool out of yourself. Be careful, I say; remember me, I beg; you won’t make it without me, I promise. I tried catching you fifteen times, but you wouldn’t let me the sixteenth. Don’t you know you won’t make it without me? Don’t you know that you need me? Don’t you know that I am always, always right? I tried to keep us from breaking the twenty-fourth time, but by then we were irreparably broken, I was irreparably broken. I shouted, I sobbed as the mist took you away, and I am repeating my déjà vu because that’s all I have left to hold. You’re disappearing, and my future holds nothing anymore because all I know is that I won’t make it without you.