when roaches stop visiting

we don`t talk anymore
you and I for you and I
have moved on
to what is
undecidedly inconvenient
it`s as if these
spats of poetic trinkets
once whispered in dark end corners,
once rumored in secret places
have exhausted their course
so of course
fate was never of value
or in danger
of ever endangering us;
 
I hate God            sometimes
 
when I`ve failed to grasp
the disaster ahead,
like this winding curve
that settled  
on a long stretch of highway
that you don`t see
until your life flashes before your eyes
in an accidental heartbreak
 
but to say
I don`t miss you
or that I have never loved you
is a moral hazard in itself
and therefore we \ I should feel shame
rather than blame
for it takes two blemishes
to create one stain
that proves
hearts do bleed;
 
so I wish to give you
this poem
in place of a dozen wilted roses