is breathing fine without you
brave, or weak? am i strong
for letting you go, or foolish
for letting you slip?
you are Icarus descending
through the hairline cracks of youth,
final lost tooth, last prayer
uttered by believing lips.
you are a fixed memory
dose of serotonin and
i am not an addict
but a Creator now.
craft my own peace,
bare hands, fresh blood.
is loving someone new a miracle
or tragedy? perhaps both?
i was born Artist,
infant inventor, birthed
Poet, sculpting renaissance
with electric palms.
made to make, made to
kiss canvas with the pigment
of my indigo veins.
and life, despite its institutions,
is no collaboration, but
a self-portrait
and i will paint on, foolish one!

so i command you!
let my lungs sing the song
of my own breath, let
my chest fall, heartbeat
metronome, on and on
let her dance, for the love
of everything that matters.
let my heartstrings tangle
with those of another pulse–
they no longer exist
to tie your shoes anymore
let the Artist claim
her magnum opus, let her
own it, titled Happiness,
singularly and authentically

so i smile big in pictures
not because you would have wanted me to
but to show you I can
without you.

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