ruins

I promised no more poetry and I’d rather think of this as a confession: you are still the first person I want to share new things with.

I still wake up with things to tell you. One day, I won’t. I will learn placid acceptance. I will stop panicking when I can’t perfectly remember the pitch of your voice or the curve of your jawline. The smell of cinnamon won’t make me sad anymore. At this point it’s not about finding someone to replace you. I have spread my love all over the place. It’s about trying to sleep knowing I live in a world that has your hands in it.

“Listen, you have to pull it together. There’s no use agonizing over mouths that don’t want to open around your name. Stop mourning the doors you left locked and bolted. Put on the red dress. Empty out your purse. Chase the anxiety meds with gin. Leave your pens at home.”

I will get drunk and kiss strangers and I will dance all night with my friends. I will cry for you on the kitchen floor but I won’t ask you to come back.