This poem is not about you.
     This poem is about the candles that I no longer burn because the scent is the seasonal smell of you. It is about me trying to give them away to my unsuspecting friends and them knowing the history behind a jar of ******* wax. It is about the nightstand that holds the candles behind all of the others and makes me forget for a while.

But this poem is not about you.
     It is about the love that I ordered off the internet and gave to you. It is about wondering whether you sleep with it, or stuffed it in your closet, or burned it. It is about the scent that I wrapped it in, that I no longer wear, for it reminds me of you being reminded of me.

Though it may sound like it, this poem really is not about you.
     It is about the melody that I no longer cry to when it hits my ears. It is about how my obsession with Iron and Wine crashed after we danced. It is about how I obsess again and can do it happily.

     It is about how I can write neutrally with an undertone of you.
     This poem is not about you.