you again, still, forever

It doesn’t mean anything that I wore your t-shirt to bed,

that one I found under my bed after you left,

because it doesn’t even smell like you anymore.

I’m over you.

 

It doesn’t mean anything that I glance at trucks,

driving on the highway and spotting ones that match yours,

because I’m just paying attention to traffic.

I’m over you.

 

It doesn’t mean anything that I see you in every pair of green eyes,

comparing them all and how they all fall short,

because I always liked green eyes anyway.

I’m over you.

 

It doesn’t mean anything if my chest hurts when people mention you,

thinking about how not talking was my choice and I have to choose it every day,

because it’s been years and someday it will get easier to do.

I’m over you.

 

It doesn’t mean anything that my heart knows your name,

so anyone who shares it makes me skip a breath,

because it’s just an everyday name, after all.

I’m over you.

 

It doesn’t mean anything that pieces of you are everywhere,

in buying tools, in too-clean sneakers, in midnight conversations about rain

because they’re just things, and phrases, and moments.

I’m over you.

 

It doesn’t mean anything if there are tears in my eyes

when I look at the gift you sent me for my birthday

because it’s broken and I never use it, anyway.

I’m over you.

 

It doesn’t mean anything

I’m over you

 

we’re all liars

aren’t we

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