I will not hear you
when you cry out.
I will not run and hold you
so you won't go.
I have lived here
in anger without
I know nights when I longed
for your body,
when I wanted you next to me.
When I pretended that you were here.
So there will be no cry to keep you.
I will not talk you into a new idea about us.
It is not me.
I have lived here with you in a sullen loneliness.
So it is not you that I will miss.
Pierced by this worried thought.
It is not me that you loved.
I am just the memory of what we once wanted. And
you are the bitter piece of me that I must respect
and let go.