This one is.
It all feels heavy, all at once;
It comes and goes, but lately it stays a bit longer.
The fear of the unfamiliar dawns on me,
I am scared to face these infant days.
I relapse into what feels the most customary-
A small flower cup you gave me,
cradled in my hands;
One of the only things I have left of you.
Not every poem is about you, but this one is.
There are things I'd love to tell you-
How discouraging it felt to have
a job I thought I wanted, to think it would fix it all-
But it didn't. And how even my
successes feel like failures most days.
I'd love to tell you I got a promotion
At the job I only just started;
I changed rooms- I have sunlight every morning.
If we were still friends, I'd tell you about
The things I hated, things I don't hate anymore.
The taste of alcohol, sushi, coffee in the mornings.
I'd tell you about the sunroof in my car,
The tattoo that no one knows about.
I'd tell you I still love you, not knowing if I mean it.
I can't tell if I miss you or if I just miss
the feeling of not being a stranger to someone.