I harbor no ill will toward you,
although I most definitely could.
the only “illness” I feel
is in the pit of my stomach
when it occurs to me that not only
are we no longer lovers,
but we are also
no longer friends.
I feel this illness when I see
a funny meme you would relate to,
or hear a song that was supposed to be “ours.”
I feel it when I read the name of the town you’re now in,
or glimpse a sign for the restaurant you unabashedly liked.
The illness springs on me when
your laugh comes back to haunt me,
when the color of the leaves on the trees outside
precisely matches the green of your eyes,
when I see male fingers strumming a guitar,
but I know that they aren’t yours.
You played me like a fiddle
and then you broke all of my strings,
so where we were once
we became flat,
the sweet music
that once characterized us
all but impossible
I’m sorry that we’re no longer friends.
We would have been good for each other.
But I will not allow myself to be a broken fiddle.
I will re-string myself
and play my own music.
Just as I know
are playing yours.
Sometimes, ya just gotta let the emotions out.