Quasi-autobiographical fragment (Purim) (Note: This piece references Harry Potter.)

The world grows quiet. You hold my hand at the end, watching our relationship die, like the flowers you never gave me for Valentine's day - and I know, somehow, that I will manage to hold this pain inside me. I know because I have held it there before, I, the dumper, never the dumpee, now strewn across your lap like a rag-doll, trying not feel guilty for the tears that are wetting your trousers - even though I sensed this moment, sensed it across a feast in honor of a woman who bears my name, felt it between my thighs and in the flap of skin beneath my elbow, tasted it like a kiss, or like fear, when at night my eyes refused to let me sleep. There is a certain beauty in a romance dying: I imagine it looks like a dead baby unicorn - and he who drinks the blood shall have but half-life, for he shall be consumed by memories. So let my skin forget the touch of your thighs, my lips the pressure of your lips, my hair the stroke of your fingers. Let my tongue unlearn words you half-whispered in the dark - and may my pen never write you a love-poem. Only a piece of prose, sticking out from the page like a piece of glass; sharp and shapeless, it lies transparent, waiting to prick the fur of the unsuspecting unicorn, who will lie, her legs jutting out at odd angles, at the clearing to a magical forest, where hearts sew themselves back together with thread so fine, you can only feel it when you press them close between your thighs - so why can I still hear the beating of your heart when I close my eyes?