i thumb through the pages of our old life.
on the pages
where i’ve folded over the top corner.
to revisit those memories again.
ten y fan.
non-descript evenings spent listening to music, drinking red wine and putting the world to rights.
but i can’t keep doing it.
romanticising the past.
religiously reading back over the pages of the life we once shared.
those chapters are closed now. i know.
and i need to move on. i know.
the more i thumb through the old passages
the words become;
i’m misremembering them.
it’s like rubbing salt into a wound
that i was tending to
it’s like ripping it at the careful,
and leaving it
ugly and gaping.
i know, i should pick up the pen and start writing
for my new life now,
not defined by him.
or anyone else.
but defined by me.
i choose the narrative.
i should grab that pen and start writing immediately.
but my hands drift back to the old chapters.
the warmth of an old flame.
I feel like,
what’s the point in continuing writing,
when your best work is already written?
when you’ve already peaked?