she told me she was tired of missing me so much.

she told me she would be happy if i told her i was dating someone else.

she told me she just wanted me to be happy.

she told me she doesn't want me to think she never truly loved me or liked me.

she said she feels guilty for my missing her.

she said she won't be able to get over me for a long time.

and if i was prone to vast descriptions filled with heartwrenching goobledy gook i would say the following:

my heart is lying, caked on the bottom with dust, in western louisiana, waiting for one of us to make the move to pick it up.

i would say this:

maybe on her way back, in december, she'll swoop down as she crosses back over and deposit it where ever it needs be.

i would say this:

maybe i'll pick it up, hold it under the cold tap water in the kitchen sink, dry it on a towel, and give it to another one.

instead, i want to steer away from all of that. i don't want to distill it into images that do no one any good.

this is the truth:

i still like her. perhaps love. she seems like i'll be able to get over her easy, forgetting her skin, forgetting her heat, forgetting her laugh, forgetting her hands, forgetting her mind, her kindness, her insecurties, her humor, her strength. i'm supposed to forget all of that, soon.