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Sunday, February 3, 2013

My Dearest John


stop loving me.

It’s distracting.

Oh, I’m not saying you don’t do an admirable job smiling and chatting

and walking nonchalantly away,

but that smile and that catch in your chat

and those eyes that affix my eyes

so I can’t duck or nod or turn

my head. I want to spend a night in bed

without this stone in my chest.

Is that too much to ask?

I want to walk outdoors on a cool spring morning and feel the world’s effervescence

without howling.

Stop reminding me about Paris. Stop asking

if I’m okay. (I’m not, okay?) Stop telling me you have a free hour

every Thursday after lunch.

Stop running past my window

in your cleverly reflective running shorts

and matching shoes. I’m here,

but I won’t tell you.

Dear John, somewhere

someone has days

she can’t get through

because of what she thinks when she thinks

of you. Dear John,

I don’t care that the past can never be put away,

That what it will have been is always yet to be determined.

I do not care.

This has to end.



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