The parts of me that belonged to you are now strewn across this city we once loved.
I found myself in pieces in the canned food aisle of the grocery store because they had run out of tuna and tuna was your favourite but I have run out of you.
I felt myself crumble in the park when the air I breathed stung with your familiar scent rain and earth the smell of a forest in a city an impossibility.
I fell apart on the terrace of the building where you told me you loved nothing more than me where you told me you were tired of fixing us fixing you, fixing me Fixing any of this.
I wish someone had taught me how to love something like you something impossible something beautiful something that does not know how to forgive nor forget these broken parts of me.
I wish someone had told me that when you left I would be nothing but this forgotten, broken, damaged thing lost in a prison I have made of my own body.
But more than anything, I wish someone had helped me understand that things like you are not meant to be held onto so tightly.
I wonder sometimes if you look across this city that we once loved, laughed and wept in and imagine me smiling at you from that secret spot on the horizon that we once called ours, and is now just mine alone.