Which is worse;
Being unable to go back to the past
Or going back and finding that no one else is there?

I have something against poets.

Who are you to decide what is beautiful?
Who are you to dictate what is worthy of the viewer’s eyes, of the listener’s ears?
Who are we, but people, who have decided that our words deserve to be heard over everyone else’s

And who are we, but people

The water here isn’t as good as the water back home

But I drink it anyway because the dusty flavour tastes how
My last pair of pointe shoes used to smell
When they were brand new

I should tell you, dear reader
That it was years
Before I was able to put our story
(This is not the story) into words.

So I will not bore you with details
Of how those years were full of failed attempts,
Notebooks unused but for one page,
Half-existing musings and abstract ideas.

I will not reveal my aversion
To writing down our story,
How I feared that solidifying it meant it was over (I was right),
How it meant it was over but I was not over it (I was right).

I will not describe the catharsis
Of long-awaited success;
How it is a relief felt in the chest and the lungs,
It is the sadness and hope of letting go.

I will not linger over the fact that writing down our story means my fears (regrets?) have come true,

And there is an ending
And it has already happened
And it is terrible


(Because it isn’t terrible)

I should miss you
But how can I when my younger self
Did not take good care of your memory?

It was, I have found,
In more than one way
That you did not stay with me