I’m healing
and you’re slipping away.
It’s cruel, to force me to choose
between
keeping you alive and killing myself
or
letting you die
and living.
I don’t await your phone calls
Saturday with the sunrise in my eyes,
I skip songs we sang together
in favor of the newer, the less
overplayed.
The jagged edge of stolen love
is stabbing me less frequently
about the chest
and has reduced itself from an unbearable
shredding
to a dull, constant ache.
And it’s the truth that I think of you
several [all] times [the] each [time] day,
but your face, a love scar on my psyche,
arrives less and less in the company of tears
and more with subtle, secret smiles.
I’m healing,
and you’re slipping away.
Your voice barely echoes in that place
between sleep and waking,
and I don’t chase it.
I choose to live.
You’d want that.