Something Sweet.

You're the ideal with little foundation to no foundation, next to my coffee cup.  
You're the psychotic paradise in the laundry pile of lies and yes, it's not easy to separate but I'm exasperated with this, or that, whatever that was going into the machine.  
It's not as if I'm running from a forget me not sprouting in the porch.  
It's not as if I'm tying myself to a kitchen sink when those dizzy days of you, and hot water, arise.  
I'm not dwelling on you for if I was I'd still be fighting with the hoover.  
I'm never the type to give up easily, or did that memory already vacate your mind when I took out the garbage?  
I'm completely and emphatically and sometimes erratically aware that what was us was a foreign, foolish fantasy living in the mouse-chewed wires behind the broken computer and what was us was never there, my computer works just fine.