I miss the idea of you,
not the actual you,
who I really never knew.

My fingers twitch to text
or snap a photo of a sunset
or bough of branch,
blown bare,
the way you left me,
I snark,
bitterly drifting on lyrics
of sad songs and dreams
of springtime in London,

reliving the grief of past lives,

over and over in agonizing clarity.

It’s too late to bridge
whatever was true,
but my blood pumps hard
as I build a dam
to block the stream,
memories of you

and my feeble attempt
to teach you to dance.


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