I’m not trying to bring back the love we lost;
I am not naive to think things are fine.
We both lost it, like the savage toss of the ocean waves . . .
it washed to the shore, steadily, violently,
crushing as it hit the end of its line.
I’m not trying to bring back the passion—
those moments in the dark, of strong, steamy love.
I’m not trying to have you in my arms again—
wrapped in my fervent fire, consuming you passionately.
I’m not trying to bring back the old times
where you were mine and I was yours.
You have moved on, or maybe you’re just pretending—
either way it’s fine . . . we both need to move on.
I’m not trying to bring back how we were;
that’s something we both gave up the night we cut ties—
like the flickering lights of a dimming lantern,
about to die and succumb to the dark.
I’m not trying to bring back the paradise we lost
when we both raised our own hells and let ourselves be consumed.
I’m not trying to bring back the glow and warmth of our love;
when our love’s a fire, and now, the coals are barely burning
as cold fills the emptiness that fills our empty space.
I’m not trying to bring back the minutes and messages
we have spent with and sent to one another—
those moments were done and gone,
like a flower that’s bloom and wilted in its own time.
I’m not trying to be away from you;
I’m trying to be away from myself,
from the memory of us together,
like how the sun make the moon shine in the darkness.
I’m not trying to find someone new;
I know I am better off on my own,
and no matter how unclean you think I am,
that’s all on you—I am not trying to find my way back to you.