Since you lied, I found myself
hearing every half-baked love song
on the radio, and trying not to laugh
—or cry—because I’m not sure I could stop.

Moving on isn’t as easy as you found it
because the slate is never as clean
as it was in the beginning, before you
stepped on my rose-tinted glasses as you left.

Yesterday, in passing, I heard her name, and wished
you well, or part of me did, the part that
can forgive, even if you think I’m still jealous
of the sound of her name on your lips.

But I was never good at letting you go
and have the last word, and I’m always stumbling
over misplaced pride, and the photographs of Cancun
I’m almost glad you forgot to take with you.

I’ll turn the radio off soon, and pack
away our song and the well-worn photo album,
and pretend I’ve misplaced your letter,
but maybe not take off your gold ring just yet.

Just because I’m not as good as you
at forgetting, I can still change, and become
the someone I almost was. Then
you’ll read this, and be sorry
you never knew me
or that you almost did.