fifty years. but nothing stays the same. when the elevator lurches

and my stomach drops, i ignore the way i can feel your fingertips. i

know i will not find your eyes.

when i leave, i remember it. the shine wears off again, and it is

simply this: you crumpled me. i loved you until i realized i had to

figure out how to unfold on my own.

we used to wax and wane

like the moon.

you would leave

only to return.

we would end

only to begin again.

eventually,

i decided it was easier

to just look up at an empty sky.

i really want to end this, can’t you tell?

occasionally i imagine a place where i sit down

and have a conversation with you

and it goes something like this:

you say:

why can’t you stop writing about me

isn’t it getting kind of old?

and i say:

i just can’t

i’ve tried so many times

you have to believe me

you respond with:

i don’t understand why you can’t just

get over it

and then i get angry:

of course you don’t

you’ll never understand it

and then you get angry too:

i’ve said sorry a thousand times

what else do you want from me?

and then i finally tell you the truth:

honestly, i want you to change majors

so we won’t be in the same career

for the rest of our fucking lives

honestly, i kind of wish i’d never have to

see your face again because i really hate it

when we’re breathing air in the same room

honestly, i want you to try and take just a damn second

to put yourself in my shoes and think about

what psychological damage getting lied to

and tossed around like dirty clothing

for over a year does to somebody

honestly, i really wish i could let this go

way more than you do because yeah,

maybe it’s annoying for you but fuck,

it’s so damn horrible for me and

honestly, i say all of this but i don’t know

who i am as an artist without you

i don’t know who i am as a poet

without the shit you put me through

you make my words worth reading

you make my art worth something

and that just fucking sucks because

honestly, i don’t know how to let go

of things and it fucking kills me,

do you finally get it now?

why your apologies don’t make

it any better literally at all

because they’ve barely ever

been anything more than

fucking damage control

and why i have ripped myself

apart over and over again

trying to find something else

to make my writing beautiful

but it’s you. it has always been you.

i gave you everything and in some way,

i still am. for some reason,

i still fucking am.

and maybe you say something

and maybe you stay silent.

and maybe i get over it after that

but i probably

don’t.