One Year, One Month, Ten Days

“I’m not looking for anything.”

Green eyes met brown;
Of course he wouldn’t be,
I thought.

I think about this past year,
And how I learned to live
With the broken pieces of myself
That don’t quite fit into the puzzle
But I’m still not exactly complete
Without them either.

I like the way my head feels warm
And my skin turns prickly
When I see him;
But I know now that it is not love,
But rather, wistful thinking
That I could love again.

I can remember the pull
Of fingers through hair
As I tried to remember
Which way was up,
And to ask myself
If I still cared.

I can still taste lake water
And sunshine,
Mixed with melancholy regret
And aftershave,
That never really left your lips,
And then burned mine.

You changed me like a butterfly,
Or like Death, I’m not sure which,
When you left me that summer.
And here he is
Echoing your same words,
But he is still here.

“I’m not looking for anything,” he says,
And I realize I have to give him an answer.
“Me neither,” I say.

I lied.
I was really looking for myself.

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