i don't think about you oftenMature

I don’t think about you often,
at least, not as frequently as I think of other things - 
like the name of the color of our old love,
or the swell of urgency that lodged in my throat
the night I finally left you, or the static of phone lines
when there’s nothing else to say but you won’t hang up -
but lately I’ve been wondering how you’re getting by
and if you threw away all the things that reminded you of me.
Was there any hesitation, any monumental pause as
you held a fistful of my love letters over the fire?
Did you throw the sculptures I made you into the bin or
burn it with the other things that turned to hate in your veins?
How long after the chasm of our fission did you
tear apart my pictures into the thousands of little promises
I’d left broken like blood vessels in your heart?
Was it your idea or hers to soak the reasons we’d loved in
gasoline and send them raining down on a tired city 
like ashen rain - and did you taste me on the smoke-scented wind?

The End

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