Four years.

Four years and you're letting go,

not me.

I desired to keep you.

Like the folded up piece of paper that you placed in an envelope and sealed with your

wax kisses.

And I made its home in a box in a drawer in my dresser.

And you have shredded any hope I had in my mind of ever

pulling you back to my side.

Because why?

Because I left you?

Because I moved on?

No.

I was not the one abandoning your hand as we stood

in the sight of curious eyes,

moving among rows in a Best Buy.

No, I was the one holding back tears,

shaking as you pulled your hand away almost as fast as my heart shattered.

And I moved on.

But I am the one drenching my pillow with liquid recollections of what we once had.

And I am the one staring at a word and three numbers that make the acid in my stomach bubble.

And I moved on.

Because I never made eyes with any other human being

until I saw the hunger in yours 

when another heart showed you fascination.

And I moved on.

Every day I run with the suffering of losing you on my heels 

and at night when it takes me,

I am left picking up the pieces,

alone.

And I moved on.

Yes, I love him

and 

yes, I love her.

And I moved on.

Because the only emotion I have left to feel is

hate and anger and sadness and fear.

And I cannot love.

And I moved on.

Because I am no longer living.

And in death comes life.

And I moved on.