It’s Not About You

There are times
where we have days that feel like months
or months
that wear us down to a fraction.
We felt whole,
those months
we were carrying eternity in our veins,
scrawled “I love you” in our canals
and on steamy bathroom windows.
It was a rush,
our love energy.

Jet-fueled from the start
by the magazine stand in Terminal E,
where the clerk ordained our first kiss.
It was always that way with us,
people coming to sip from our love joy,
to try to see what brave looks like
through the bars of our ribcages.

Sometimes I felt like a celebrity,
the way you could put stars in my eyes.

Every time I hit the small escalator in your airport,
my heart started beating my chest to bruises.
I cried every time I had to leave,
that maybe I’d let you bust out my wobbly knee caps,
so I wouldn’t have to walk away.

It’s not about you.
In the year after our break-up,
I’ve filled my vocabulary with those words.
Like, the day I realized
we translated the word “home” in different languages.
That our languages were war-torn,
bursting through our throats
to attack each other’s defense mechanisms,
even though both our religions
were based in love.
The flaw in my religion is
it’s not about you.

And even as I write this
I realize that, even if you never read these words,
I couldn’t care less.
It’s not about you.
For the first time
in a really long time
it’s not about you.