Enough with the fireworks

Enough with the fireworks,
the trembling anticipation, the
innate need to kiss away every
exploding galaxies expanding in
the hollowness of my being, the
tongue-tied conversations built
on unsteady foothills of
everyday stillness.

Lovely, I am done being smitten.

I would love to wake up in a
dreary Monday morning thinking
of nothing but the day ahead of me.
I would love to hide underneath
the comfort of my sheets in total
disregard of your existence, only
one cup of joe simmering
in the kitchen.

Imagine.
All of my reckless Friday nights
rolled into one giant, lovely
misadventure.

I would
love to learn how to deal with
being lost in a city I’ve never
been in, without looking at the spaces
between my fingers where yours
should be.

I would
love to sleep soundly every
evening without the slightest
need for your attention. Without
the overwhelming desire to
wait for the message that
will never come. Believe me,
I had waited for so long that I
had grown accustomed to
the way the sunlight creeps in
to my bedroom floor.

There are so many things
I would love to relearn again. So
many things I would love to be.
So many reasons for me to
leave every yesterdays and
memories in ash trays and half
emptied bottles of beer.

And so
I am done being smitten.

Darling,
I loved myself
only because you did.