You wanted to ask would he promise not to leave you too,
and add, that is was okay, you understood,
even though it wasn't,
and you didn't.
But you stop yourself,
this is progress, you think.
This is what is means to be healthy,
and not to be sick,
your words like spores,
taking root in the minds of your friends,
in his mind,
and then he cuts you off,
like mould on bread.
So you keep swallowing,
and your throat is tight,
and the crease between your eyes,
and above your nose
is giving you a headache.
This is progress.
This is moving on.
This is what it means to be happy with yourself.
I am happy with just me, you say,
and your smile like a **** across your face.