empty spaces

My life is full of empty spaces.

Long quiet days spent listening to things that don't remind me of you: a drip against the sink basin, black cat snores, ice falling from the balcony, commercials.

I keep a list of all the things people places I can no longer enjoy: songs by Toto, flavored cola, beaches, fighting leprechauns, baby giggles.

This time should be about healing, but it's been about you. And I haven't figured out how to make it not. I make lists and write poems and spend more time alone than my doctor would prescribe.

Still, it would be wrong to say you never gave me anything. You gave me bruises and heartache and mental illnesses. You gave me a type of pain that made me feel like my lungs were swollen, filled with concrete and drowning.

I'm unable to clear our moments from my memory. I want it most, to let go to give up to move on. I threw you away and it's done it's done it's done; holding on to trash is stupid.

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My life is full of empty spaces, now.

So I'll curl up in them and stretch and grow and sleep soundly, knowing these days are better without you.