I quit
(as much as anyone
can quit love
or hate
or compulsive
consternation).
I still miss you.
As much as I did when we had a thing.
More now?
I dunno.
I quit four weeks ago.
Everything feels the same
and the pigment in my iris's
still leaks into the white.
I still tear up
in grocery store air conditioning
or when the Pittsburgh Pirates win.
I still carry
a knife and high hopes for just 'cause
beating just cause
to finish lines.
Not you. The pride
in me is what it is
I miss. Watching you light up,
my fingers itch for thirteen seconds.
Three shallow breaths.
I quit four weeks ago,
but that doesn't mean
it won't be nice to see you again some day.
