i read the poetry i used to write for boys i never think of any more
and it makes me sick to know you're next.
to know all this heartache really is temporary
to know i miss you as bad as i do right now and in a year,
it will only be a poem.
you will only be a poem.

kind eyes and crooked smile,
the inner child that shows its face in the morning
how strange to have been strangers once
how strange to be strangers once again

thousands of light years away
on an island off the West coast of Venus
there is a cottage built of moonstone
with a stove that runs on stardust
and a violet retriever with antennas for ears
who roams the yard and barks into the void.

there is an ocean where our love runs deep,
so we bathe in the memories of our past lives
and ride the wave of our endless future.
we smoke moon cheese when the sunrises,
we drink from the milky way as the sunsets,
we collect the shooting stars that granted us all of our wishes
and put them on display in glass cabinets.

and though a version of us exists on Earth,
in a world of pandemic and isolation,
where the stoves run on gas and the dogs foam at the mouth,
where the oceans are tainted and the stars are out of reach,
it is enough to know that thousands of light years away,
there is a cottage on the West coast of Venus,
where you and I live in perfect harmony.

nothing about these moments feel fair,
time keeps passing and i fear that i am growing younger,
that i am becoming more childlike.
i feel small again, like i need to be held.
i tell myself i forgive you,
but i fear the resentment that threatens to surface,
and i'm terrified that it doesn't matter anyway.

i still love you. i don't know if i'll ever stop.
maybe you need me more now than ever,
because i need you, too.
but i fear this nostalgia only exists in my mind,
and i'm terrified that it doesn't matter anyway.

when the goodbyes are for good,
after months of caving into yourself,
sadness spilling out of yourself,
you begin to let go of the things that only ever almost existed -
but died before they could live outside of your mind:
the weekend getaway to new york city you almost booked,
the christmas lights on the roof we almost put up,
the 'i love you' that you almost meant.

you learn to let go of the potential happy endings:
throwing our caps up at the graduation we almost made it to,
the hidden trail we almost hiked,
the new year's eve kisses we exchanged for almost 4 years in a row.
but there are things that still swell beneath the surface -
every exhale threatening to spill the words i almost said,
every memory embedded in a cinematic masterpiece so beautiful that it can only be viewed through rose-coloured glasses.

so i lay them down here:
a graveyard for every almost,
a cemetery for every possibility,
a sanctuary for every end of the line disguised as a new beginning.
and i let them rest in peace.
i bring them flowers once a year,
daisies because they remind me of your smile.

i pay my respects and mourn the love that could have been.
i thank you for almost being the best thing that ever happened to me.
i thank you for the laughter that almost lasted forever.
i thank you for almost loving me without end.

last November, you said, "I'll always be here when you need me."
so thank you for staying gone.