I, for one, will not apologize for living my own ******* life
to its fullest and its best extent.

I saw you in winter,
and thought of tree branches feathered by starlight in poorly lit neighborhoods. A hearth where the more honest parts of myself, I am bared fetal, warmed upon, welcomed.

I saw you in spring,
and thought of long drives in the countryside in the rain. Ice cream melting from our chins dancing petrichor upon our toes, kissing by the sea shore.

I saw you in summer,
and thought of sleepy boathouses, uncovering ancient childhood treasures in the woods. A secret lake somewhere, the sky's reflection in promise. Windy hilltops upon which to blame each other for the sunrise.

I saw you in autumn,
and thought of scarfs and cafes, city streets and sunsets where we watched each others breath escape. Apartment staircases where windchill hibernates, the world slowing down around us from your window.

The first time I saw You, I thought to myself, "I could live there."

This is a poem
about you

but there's nothing poetic about
your unkempt hair
and your round face

there's nothing poetic about your
constant need of reassurance
"where are you? what are you doing right now?"

there's not an ounce of romance in your disturbed sense of "love"

this is a poem about you,
but it's not a poem about love.

It's a poem about redemption
and regaining of confidence

*it might be about you, but it's none of my concern anymore

In the months since you left, I have stared, blankfaced, waiting for a single moment of inspiration.
Poised with my pen, prepared to write the greatest breakup poem.
But all I feel is nothingness.
My mind is a screaming black hole with your name on it that has ****** every ounce of creativity from these fingertips that used to ebb and flow with words.
I am the nothingness that you created.