This is the kind of place I could forget you. This ancient, overgrown village, It seems a great place to leave you behind, A ghost to haunt these red-brick walls. I’m happy now, can you tell? I’m healing, now, recovering who I was before you, discovering who I am after you. It’s a gentler kind of happiness than the frenzied love I felt with you, Peace and contentment washing over me, The kind I don’t notice until I remember how I was a year ago, How I’ve grown since last summer. It’s a beautiful village, all wildflowers and little stone churches, And night is falling, The wind gently whispering as it rustles through the leaves – I’m so far from your turbulent emotions and childish games, here, Staring at the sky, Untouched, unhurt by you. I’m in love with the earth and my place on it, Writing you this poem, And I think it’ll be the last poem I ever write to you.
