the good— no longer do i have to endure
the same tall tales, the nostalgia, the
discrete blowjobs, every last “you’re so
cool”. not that you aren’t, but it
gets old feeling like a violently
collapsing star in your universe
of yes men. i have
never felt less sure of
myself, more minute
than i did standing by your side.

the bad— our shared language was
hiroshima’d in my backyard, photostrips now a mausoleum.
i’ve tucked them away one
by one. you never gave me credit for
jokes or photos, and now, the
pieces will never
fit again. we clash vying for
the same love. i hate how i miss the
way you pomp your hair, the
deliberate way your hands move
flipping the record. bloodies and wry
smiles and shared dirty jokes, zapped.

i am tired of this dynamic.