If I could
I would uncork it
and whisper
“I’m sorry”
as I drained every thought of you
glugging
down the sink

but instead
I will sit
and let the wind carve you out of me.
I’ll welcome the rain
in great sweeps,
and beg it,
to bleed me dry
of you

and maybe the sun will come up
on a day
that it doesn’t hurt so much,

and warm the stone that will become
my heart,
beat smooth
by the drum of disappointment
from the fall

And you’ll just be this beautiful,
distant thing that happened,
but never to me