How To Move

12

  It's been six months.
  It's been six months since I last saw your face, like really saw it. It's been six months since I last kissed your lips and touched your skin. It's been six months since I said, "I will always miss you."

  Can I tell you all the things I don't miss?

  I don't miss having to worry how I look on a Saturday morning because you might decide to show up and last time you told me my eyes looked like baseballs.

  I don't miss having to constantly move my schedule around just so that we could see each other at all during your baseball season. 

  I don't miss how for the last half of my senior year I spent most of my time walking into a school knowing I was with somebody who was never truly faithful to me. 

  I was with someone who, at the time, just couldn't keep a promise. 
  I was with someone who always drank when I wasn't around.
  I was with someone who was too stubborn to ask for help, much less receive it. 

  I don't miss feeling weak because you never listened to what I had to say.

  I don't miss beating myself up because I was acting like a jerk or being pushy when really it was the other way around . . . or maybe it was both ways.

  You were like a mirror. Popular enough with friends and people who were all the same to love, all smiles, but a whole lot of shit on the inside.

  We took it out on each other . . .

  and now I miss your smile and you easiness and how happy you were whenever you got your hands on a good cinnamon role,

  but I don't miss the pain you gave me just to relieve your soul. 

  I already had to much of it all on my own.