I crave your poetry, L.
It makes me smile—
it makes me wish
he would write the same things for me,
that he would be devoted to me
the way you are.

You don’t know I went back to him.
I know it would **** you.
I know I’m distant—
I’m peeling off the band-aid slowly.

It could be under warm water,
where the wound would soften
and there’d be no pain.
But I choose to tear it off dry,
just to feel
every fragment of hurt.

Because deep down,
I think I’m a *******.

I wonder why I keep delaying the end with you.
I never fell in love with you—
I fell in love with the freedom you gave me.
And maybe that’s why
my farewell still waits,
unfinished,
in a notes app.
I don’t want to lose my freedom.

I want to text you
and say there’s still
a possibility of a future for us—

because it would give me comfort
in my little world of illusions,
knowing that even if I live my life alone,
I still have somewhere to return to.

And that place
would be you—
even after all the pain.

But it wouldn’t be fair to you.
Because I’d be keeping you waiting,
when you could be living your life,
with someone better.

I need to rewrite this story—
but to do that,
I have to leave it in the past.

I tell people I’m divorcing
as if the process
were still happening,
but it’s already done.

I am divorced.

And it’s a leap into the dark,
yet there’s still
a thin nylon thread
tied to me,
wanting to believe
I’ll return to our little house,
our nest,
our love.

I found out you moved on,
you’re with another woman.

I felt nothing.

I thought I would cry,
tear my hair out over you—
but I think I love myself now.

My weekly therapy sessions worked.

You’re not letting me go.
You’re making everything harder,
slowing down my plans.

Do you still miss me?

I will respect you.
You did it
you climbed out of the hole
you once called home
and you flew.
Fly, my love,
you are free
to soar.