My friends tell me I should be sad you’ve moved on. The songs tell me that I should be mad you’re successful without me. The poems teach me how to cry,supposedly it is cathartic. As if tears can patch up the new hole on my heart.
All that advice is very confusing to me. You see, I’m used to moving on. I never expected us to last. I heard the words we spoke to each other, meaningful then, hollow now, and in the end, just words. I saw your shifty eyes waaay before your feet started moving. We started ending when we begun.
Maybe you were surprised by my nonchalance. Maybe you wanted me to rant and rave against the universe, pound a fist upon my heart and declare that I would never love another. Part of me wanted to do that, because even now I still wanted to please you, but what would be the point? I could have held you to me, made the promises you wanted to hear that I could not keep, but in the end, all I would have been left with was your body. You were already gone, sweetheart.
The biggest part of me knew that you were my past, and I locked you safely there in a box with my other Almosts . I refused to give you any more of my time, you’d already taken enough moments in my dreams.
My friends tell me new your relationship is not going well. The songs tell me I should rejoice. The poems teach me that this is what it feels to be vindicated.
Me? I know you’ll look for me soon, and I’ll greet you like I do any stranger; with frosty eyes and a fake smile.