Humour.
As peculiar as it sounds, humour is the word I associate with my breakup.
Choleric, melancholic, phlegmatic, sanguine.
Not a balance, but a cycle. Not components, but stages. Not a mixture, but ingredients, added one by one.
.
"How dare you?" was where it started.
White hot rage; I was full of bile; There was steam pouring out my ears.
There was shouting and screaming, things were thrown, doors were slammed, hearts were smashed.
That night, I was the choleric.
.
"How could you?" was where it went.
The weight of the truth settled in; tears spilled down my cheeks.
My heart slowed, stilled, stopped.
There were sleepless nights, unfinished meals, unanswered phone calls.
For the next few weeks after it happened, I was the melancholic.
.
"You had to," I realised, once Grief's curtains were pulled back and Reality stood outside my window.
There were still sleepless nights, but my tears had dried. My heart's doors hadn't opened yet, but they were unlocked.
Consequences were the result of actions and actions were the result of reasons. I finally understood yours.
For the next few months, I was the phlegmatic.
.
"Thank you," was where it ended.
For the memories, for the strength I gained from building myself back up, for giving me the chance to realise that I deserved better.
Blood rushed through my heart at the thought of my new man. A smile grazed my lips at the thought of our time spent together.
At long last, I was the sanguine.
~Via
Relating humourism to a breakup? Probably not what Hippocrates had in mind.
YOU ARE READING
Magnolia
Poetry❝When you're in a dark place, you tend to think that you've been buried. Perhaps you've been planted. Bloom.❞
