Now that you don’t visit my profile anymore,
I can clean my room without checking my notifications twenty-eight times an hour,
watch romantic comedies in bed alone at 2 a.m.,
and walk around 8th Avenue making fun of myself
for wishing you’d show up and sweep me away.
Now that I have to scroll down to find your name in my Messages,
I can put down my phone and pick up my pen,
drink from the bottle I’d been saving for us,
and pour all these thoughts of you onto a page.
Now that you don’t read what I write,
I can maybe write a little more honestly.
These feelings can lie still on a petri dish as I examine their persistence
and employ all findings for the advancement of winning my internal eternal war.
Now that you’ve given up fighting with me,
I can lay down my sword and let myself miss yours.
It’s not every day that a matching flame bursts in,
freeing the fire in you to burn so boldly, so brazenly.
Now that — after your brief, bright stint in my sky — you’ve found your place amongst the ones who came and went,
I can find you a purpose.
I can put down those dreams and take what I’ve learned,
and maybe there won’t be any helicopters waiting for me when I land at JFK,
but at least I like the song you left.
Now that you’ve set me free from the hope that it could finally be you,
this Penelope can stop pretending to be a siren,
smile a little at the break you gave her,
and quietly take her seat back in the deserted station,
once again waiting for love to return from the epic journey it must’ve embarked on that day,
years ago,
when it suddenly left a hollow in its searing wake.
