my nights have stopped becoming all about you.

they have stopped becoming about
voids that smell a little
like your perfume;
they have stopped becoming about
your eyes, and how they show clips
of you,
leaving.
they have stopped becoming about
broken clocks forever set to 11:11
wishing
for your return.

they have become about
a sea of black out poetries
and classic movies
my younger self
never dreamed of watching.
they have become about
songs I have never heard before.

1 ams have stopped becoming about
getting hit by
and chasing storms
named after you.
2 ams have stopped becoming
all about poems
written about you;
it’s about time
i write
about myself.
3 ams have stopped becoming
all about
shaking in pain
at the thought of
daylights worse than
midnights
and waking up as an empty shell.

they have become about
changing the color
of the sunsets and the rains,
and hugging silk pillows
and praying for strangers
a thousand miles away.

who can ever say
i’ll know what praying is like again?

my nights have stopped becoming all about you.

now, they’re all about
me,
and my growth,
and my happiness,
and my existential crises
if they insist on coming along.

so, leave, you’re long
overdue;
leave, you don’t belong here anymore.

my nights don’t belong
to you
anymore;

i don’t
belong
to you
anymore.