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I was going to write about it
to make it official:
that I was over you,
that you’re no longer in my dreams
that I have stopped living for you
that your ghostly memories
have left the building
and after countless failed attempts
and substitutes that fall short
when it came to the test
of this tired meterstick of your
the chaos of my reason
has found someone else
worthy of my insatiable night-time loving
and my genius conversations.

It was going to be
a delicious coup de grace
I fell asleep
savoring the metaphors
I’d be sure to use
when I wrote about it
in the morning

I keep his picture
next to my pillow
these days, see
but when I reached for my phone
that small hour
when I don’t even remember
what it was that woke me,
there was nothing but
blunt silence
from him:
a blank screen
and I fell into looking
at his face
so frightening in its unfamiliarity
as yours is wearisome in its familiarity

and I’ve decided
it wouldn’t hurt to put off
writing down that my love for you is dead
just a little longer
—at least until after
I’ve come up with a different name
to call my loneliness