The Demolition of Love
2 min readlove
They do not come with wrecking balls.
The men who demolish love
come with vinyl records from Manchester
and hydrangeas in a printed bag. They always bring flowers.
They come on their knees
filling the grooves in your floor,
warming the house
*before they know they are leaving it.*
They say they are in bloom.
Standing in a field of tulips,
your daughter running ahead,
*they look at you and mean it — every word, every petal.*
And then — quietly, methodically —
they begin.
In disappearances that grow from days into weeks.
In Het komt nu niet goed uit —
*repeated until it becomes not an explanation but a wall.*
In I have done enough —
*as if love is labour with a completion point.*
The demolition of love does not announce itself.
It arrives on April 25th with a pot of oleanders
and says: *for the beautiful memories.*
It takes a photograph in the sunshine.
It makes love one last time.
It asks for the loan back.
It drives 36 minutes home
*to watch a football match.*
That is what the demolition of love leaves behind.
Not rubble — he was wrong about that. Not ruins.
A house. Finished.
Every groove filled. Every window painted.
A bat house mounted on the garden wall
*by the woman who learned to do it herself.*
The demolition of love
did not demolish her.
*That is the part he did not plan for.*
…