You know that feeling
you get when
you drive at night, and you
just want to feel the car fly, so you
push your foot as far as
it'll go down on the gas,
down to the baseboard,
your engine howling like a wolf in the
moonlight,
yet somehow it doesn't feel
fast enough?

That's what it feels like
getting over
you.

Getting over you is like
sneaking home, trying not to awaken
the parents that you
left dozing,
but every
single
solitary
stair
creaks underneath your weight.

It is the
new routine with the
broken ankle;
the unanswered
correspondance;
the sailing ship on
the windless ocean;
getting over you is the
road taken and laden with potholes;
the refusal of the snow
to melt,
my feet slipping out from underneath me
on the remaining ice.

Getting over you is the
flameless fire,
the un-Happy New Year,
the series of unhappy poems.

Getting over you
is the bottle of champagne I drank
to quench my thirst for you,
the texts I sent you and didn't remember,
the tears I shed as I begged the
universe (and anyone else in ear shot)
to explain why it had to
turn out this way.

You know that feeling where
up is down,
left is right,
inside is flipped outside?

You're gone.