Please,
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.
Love,
Jane
