I watch old Sex And The City reruns and desperately wish I could be Samantha.
Not always.
Just for one night,
one tryst, maybe.
A few men under my belt that I don’t still think of when I’m at red lights, or buying avocados at the grocery store.
I want a detachable heart,
to never want things that taste so temporary.

Part of me thinks I still love everyone I’ve ever loved.
Each of them are tattooed initials inside my ribcage.
Ink I didn’t sign off on.
I remember each goodbye,
how before we put our own kind of forever to rest,
we’d kiss and write one more gross sonnet for the other.
I stuck each one in a glass bottle and it’s been waiting in my closet for a day I am more reckless than I am nostalgic.
A day I am more MOVE ON than WAIT.

I fall asleep and think of setting them free.
One day when I’m not so afraid of losing pieces of dead love,
all those buried things beneath my bed,
Perhaps I’ll throw them into the ocean.
Perhaps I’ll set sail to what I know I must say Bon Voyage to.

I will wonder if someone across the Pacific will read
of all my heartbreak, all my once-was, all my,
“My, my, what a mess we made.
What a mess we made of us.”