We didn’t end in a sonic boom
or with tongues shaped like guns
and fingers pointing targets at our heads.
There was no one to blame here.
We didn’t end with pages turning.
I was still caught on the first sentence
and you were missing the times when
you did not want to read books for fun.
We didn’t end in a graveyard burying our limbs
six feet under so we did not have to feel something.
We wanted to feel everything,
as if hurting was the only way to start healing.
I’ve been healing for a while now.
We didn’t end in a storm.
The thunder in my chest stopped beating
and the lighting in my eyes ceased to strike.
You are 73.8% water and it had not rained for months.
I was thirsty.
We didn’t end in vain,
creating moments that died when our love did.
They are still breathing.
Their lungs still produce your cologne;
throats cultivate the same flowers
from the garden we sat in;
hands grasp my bones the
same way yours did before.
We were not nothing.
You were not nothing.
This taught me something.
We didn’t end with a crash,
no explosion, no new chapter,
no tombstones, no rain;
we went silently.
It’s been about a year since you have not been here
and I am fully recovered after the fall.
I still catch myself wishing we didn’t end at all.