The Pathlessness of Alternatives

One can act at love, I know this well.
But having loved like a madman,
how does one act at not loving? Is it even possible?

The one who lives in my careless thoughts, who fills my entirety,
who is my question, who is my answer—
where could I ever hide them?

The one wrapped around each of my sorrows,
who falls as every drop of my tears,
who flows with each of my blood cells—
how could I push them away?

The one who dwells at the edge of all my vision,
who beats in every pulse of my heart,
who occupies all the space within me—
down which path could I hurl them away?

The one who is my living breath,
who is all the grammar of my well-being,
who is the living proof of my completeness—
how could I survive keeping them somewhere else?

The one who is my childish mistake,
who is my conscience-born rightness,
who is the stark mark of my existence,
who is the unburdened home of my faith—
with what audacity could I separate them from myself?

How do I explain... how utterly helpless I remain alive today!