The Final Chapter

You grew out your beard; the one I told you never to keep,

You cut your hair; the hair that I would put my fingers through,

You started doing things that you would have never done while it was my name on your phone,

And you painted your car. 

You painted over the blue metallic shine, 

That was just good as new.

You painted it the color black,

The color of darkness,

The color of the night,

Like the ones we spent,

Our shadows catching every movement.  

You painted your car,

And I chipped the paint off my walls. 

I crumbled up papers and I was sure one day there’d be a carving in my leg from the pattern of the hardwood floor I sat on every night,

The hardwood floor where I thought about how you said the words,

And about how you were a joke that went over my head and how you,

how you painted your car.

It’s almost like you used the paint to cover up the things you couldn’t in your mind,

Like me. 

Or like the memory of the way my lips curve when I say certain words,

Or knowing the difference between my “you’ve been talking way too long” laugh and my genuine, filled with happiness laugh.

The memory of my face and my name burned the way your throat does the first time you smoke a cigarette,

So you didn’t deal with it.

You buried it in the paint.

But for me, 

I put the memories in frames,

Those frames are now collecting dust and haven’t been revisited in months,

 But they’re still around. 

Sometimes I see someone kiss the same way you do,

Or use the same dialect as you,

And I’m able to see your face and hear your voice again because I didn’t paint your eyes and your mouth shut.

I didn’t cut my hair,

 I didn’t change my clothes,

I didn’t paint my car.

The only thing that changed for me was I learned how to calculate my worth which gave me a final conclusion of what I deserve,

And what I deserve wasn’t for you to wipe me away with a paintbrush.

One day that paint is gonna chip and you’re gonna see a little bit of our past like looking into a room with a keyhole,

 But even when you look into a keyhole you can pretty much get the whole picture, 

So your mind will flood with every single memory you’ve tried to erase.

Maybe in that moment you’ll feel separated from your body and your breath will be stolen by the demons of your own mind,

Kind of like the way I felt in the shower every night as my body slammed into the side and I’d fall down to the bottom crying,

It was as if the soul in my body wasn’t there anymore but rather with you,

And all my body could do was beg for my soul back,

Tear after tear. 

But if I really want to be true to myself,

And true for the sake of this damn poem.

You didn’t grow out your beard because I always asked you not to, 

And you didn’t cut your hair because I loved the way my fingertips were so familiar with the way each hair on your head was placed.

And you certainly did not paint your car to forget me, 

That was innate for you.

You would probably hate this poem,

Because I still remember that you hate metaphors, 

And I remember you telling me time after time to get over it.

You mock the pain you don’t understand, 

Just like most of us do.

You think I’m miserable and that the only thought echoing through my complicated, poetic mind is your name,

But that’s not it,

I’ve reached where I’m meant to be, 

But I haven’t forgotten how I got here. 

You still and always will have something of mine,

And the loss of that will not be forgotten with any drug, new love, or therapy,

I’ve learned to live with the fact that a paper airplane hanging off a chain is the only thing I have left from you.

You try to make me feel ashamed for not being over it,

But I’m healing as much as I can even with the knowledge that I will never fully heal.

I told you I loved you and you told me to go.

So as my final poem for you,

My last chapter of you,

I have one thing left to say to you: 

I’m happy and I hope you are too.