Over and Over Again - Olive Murray

I want this to be the
last poem I ever write
about him. I want to
forget falling in love with
a home that was already
occupied. I want to forget
the first time I saw him cry,
and how he held my hand
in that dark theatre so tight.
But I can't fucking forget.
So instead I wonder:
does he think of me, and
are his thoughts crue?
Or does he remember what
I do? When I whispered
that I loved him and
kissed his collarbone and
left him standing on a
dark street corner alone
while I, drunk and red
faced, ran home; or that
I cried I would never find
love? If I am recovering,
why do I feel hollow;
there's a weight inside of
me that I think is incurable
and it was left by all the
loves that never stayed.