I wish I could say
when you had left me
that everything we went through together
ceased to be relevant. That they were not at all
beautiful, not at all touching,
not all true. I wish I could say
that I ceased to remember at the very moment
that you began to forget me. Every single
Regina Spektor song, every night we spent
singing our troubles away, every cup of coffee
that I savored while you looked on with distaste.
Instead I lie on a bed in a dim room we do not share,
and I think, it’s lucky that we fizzled out
before the damage grew worse and forgetting
is no more an option than the only way
to carry on.
I write poems in the office—
love has always been one for poetry—
and you study in the library.
Life goes on
as it should.