Over Her

Ain’t no Frank Ocean playing in my head.

It was in when I thought of someone with whom I wanted to have a solitary coffee, someone I could be alone with and together with at the same time and did not remember her. It was in my forgetting about her when we officially opened our new office. I thought of her on the last day, when I had exhausted my allotted invites.

It is how I do not mind the silence from her, how I do not reach for her anymore from across the void that sprung up between us, the emptiness that I refused to acknowledge that now tastes like honeyed freedom. It is how on those increasingly rare lonely weekends spent reaching for comfort at the bottom of a bottle, I send her saccharine text messages and feel nothing as the days stretch out before me without hearing from her.

It is in my lack of guilt at not returning her very rare phone calls, how even when she is near me I no longer experience the titillation of her laughter and her smile. It is how I gave her hair clip to my sister, one I slipped out of her hair one night long ago as we tried to relive the passion we had once shared, a hair clip that had become a way to hold on to her.

It is how I no longer worry about who she is with, no longer worry that she is not with me, not minding that we may never come close to what we had, that the chasm between us might grow wider. It is how I see my life without her, how all right it is, and how I am living in her absence and not feeling diminished. It is how I feel relief, not guilt, not sadness, in being aware of myself thinking all of this.

She has slipped through my fingers, I no longer clench, sand, not diamonds, now that my hands are open. I am over her.


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