This one’s not about me.

It’s about that final morning, the distracting headache, the mouth of ash. Stepping over sleeping bodies and holding myself against the frigid air.

It’s about the way you spoke to me, or rather didn’t.

The coldness of you. How you pulled back. How I racked my fractured memories for words uttered, actions committed. Ways to take it all back.

This is about how you never returned.

This one’s not about me.