In the moments after moments I notice I've been happy,
and think, gently, "that wasn't so bad"
usually on my bicycle,
usually with friends
in the evening, in the marches, in the go-around, paint still on my hands.
the final line
is every slightly less confessional, heartbroken
slightly less about you.
I feel good in the cold sunshine, confident.
and then I catch myself
silently telling you so.
Yelling to you:
I don't need you
Waiting for the day I won't bother to yell.
This is also in-between: not clinging and not over.
Filing away all thoughts of togetherness under "next october"
one year later.
far enough away to hope that when I get there
I won't want you any more.