If there was an antipode for fireworks,
The reverse of lights & a celebration;
Like happiness, but backwards,
I saw it in the sky on your last day here.
Stillness, maybe. I’ve yet to find a word for how I felt. How I still feel.
My studio apartment smelled empty that night.
Like everything was marinated in contradiction.
The lack of you, & the lack of me wanting you.
March. I double lock the door tonight.
Slip two sweaters on my limp body,
Curl inside a blanket & pick up Yasmin Mogahid’s book.
It’s my last day here.
Boston. The bearer of a handful of my most difficult challenges.
She redefines love, Mogahid; labels what we had as desire, not love.
My studio apartment smells musky tonight. It is not mine anymore.
It smells like moving out & seeing new faces & dreaming of new things.
There are scraps of poetry buried inside my chest like under-developed limbs.
But I no longer rummage through them to look for you inside.
There are fireworks in my eyes tonight.
And in my hand, a cup of sage tea -
& the end of me wondering whether you forgot about me.