Not About Love

Every wonder what happened to the boy I told you about in Synthetic Narcotics?

We'd kissed in the car the night before we promised to never see each other again.

What I'm about to tell you is not a love story.
It's not a story about love, either.
I won't write about how often I think of his voice;
or the way his dimples made him look like a little boy;
or how tenderly his fingers intertwined with mine;
or the loud pumping sound my heart makes whenever he's on my mind;
or the times when he made me laugh about the silliest stuff;
or how we pretended all of that was enough.

This is not a love story.
This is not poetry, either.
I won't write about how he said he wouldn't do cocaine ever again;
or how I found out he powdered his nose the next day right after that;
or how he said he didn't want to drag me down;
or the time he said whenever I needed him, he'd be around;
or the drugs he took that broke my heart;
or the synthetic love that had torn us apart.

This is not a love story.
This is not an apology, either.
I won't write about hearing his name on the news;
or the time he went to court for an appeal;
or how devastated I was that I couldn’t be there;
or the way he tip-toed and looked for me everywhere;
or how I didn't even visit him for once;
or how I'm just scared that seeing him will leave me undone.

This is not a love story.
I won't write about how I tasted stars that night.
I won't write about how he asked me to run away with him.
I won't write about how I almost said yes.
I won't write about how I lied to everyone
and myself.
We were not in love.
This is not about him.
This is not about us.
I won't write about how I could've saved him.
I couldn't even save myself.

This is not a love story.
This is not poetry.
This is not an apology.
This is a lie.
This is everything we denied.
This is goodbye.