I kept it–your
name–beneath my
tongue months after you left. Tried to keep the
flavor alive. For weeks it would fall out on the dinner table,
quick and clumsily as if we were still — we. When we began
talking again I apologized for the both of us. Said that I
wasn't myself. Said that I was asleep in a burning house. And
I lied. I was then, who I was. I loved you then, with all of the
self I knew. Last night I wanted to text you, confess my love.
Turn my heart inside out for your approval. But I do not love you
the way that I should and I do not want you the way that I
should. I love you like a candle loves its flame: inconvenient
and careful. I want you like I want the hiccups in my heart to go
away. Like I want my muscle memory to delete your touch, your
taste. I stopped checking your Facebook statuses. I unfollowed
you from Twitter. It's funny how the heart can justify
jealousy. It's funny how the heart can eat itself empty. I am
done waiting for your reply. I am done dancing for your
acceptance; your apology. I lost myself trying to bring you back,
and I found myself after realizing that sometimes you just lose
people and sometimes people cannot afford to
undo.
