The love for chocolate chip has sadly tipped from desire to discernment. Alas, the intolerance for the stale, the safe, and the over familiar, birth the evolution of taste.
A new register for aliveness has alerted your nervous system. Now you can’t go back to that old sweetness, without it tasting dead.
The narrator may be unstable, however, the arc that this poem follows is actually very coherent. This is no villain monologue. There’s no justification and no blame shifting.
Just a field note from an individual with turbulence dependence
The regulator that refuses sentimentality.
It is post-illusion post-fixation, and post-drama. Here, disillusionment is in the foreground rather than structure.
All will be kept in perpetual recalibration as this cosmic force stabilizes.
the Purgatory of a Broken Heart 