Moving on.

You say “Write me a poem about the early morning
sunset” I smile. “Just look out of the window, you'll see it ”
I look at the sky glowing red. I love you.
You turn your head to the side.
When was the last time you looked at me?

I tip my head back, weighing up my options. To love
someone who will never love you back. Is it worth it?

The next night as you breathe quickly in your sleep,
on the dressing table your half-smoked cigarettes
look posh, don't ask me why. I can't explain. I imagine
the rest of your life. With or without me?

The next day you left me. How thoughtful to make
my mind up for me, you always were very good at
doing that. It's what my friends are thinking, that I
have had a lucky escape. That I hold onto.

Because growing old with you would have been
haunted by crossroads of good and bad decisions.
Your coffee scented smile would have closed down
my capacity to love anything or anyone, before long.

I thought of the day when you will read this poem.
And you won't have to move
because everything will be there in front of you.