I
It happens in degrees. Water level receding, oxygen one lungful
at a time. The guilt quieter, rounder at the edges: I go days
without thinking of you once—later, weeks.
II
It's peeling oranges and tasting the sweet before the
sting, it's looking out the window and watching birds fit
back into the sky, one by one.
III
This is me releasing your hand, one finger at a time, until all
the warmth has run away, because I'm no longer afraid of
the cold.
IV
It happens in degrees. The sun rising in shades of gold, me
rising with it.
—PORTRAIT OF A HEARTBREAK IN
REVERSE
