lies i told in february

it doesn 't hurt anymore.

i've said this a lot since the end of january.

i say it,

but i know that when i'm on the bus in the morning,

i'll look at the city,

and see snotty skating rinks,

and back-alley galleries,

i'll look and think that it should have been ours.

ours to venture, conquer,

ours to learn every unturned crevice,

every hole in the wall,

and family-owned coffee shop.

it doesn 't hurt anymore.

i say this,

and while it's not a lie￾there are brief reprieves,

it's not the truth either.

because when the train's running late,

when i'm waiting under streetlights in the snow,

and hear songs i've hidden away in a buried mixtape,

i think of you.

i think that in january i wouldn't have hesitated,

to call you on the platform,

in the winter even if my fingers froze,

when your favorite song came on,

i would have called you for nothing,

for everything.

the loss of it hits me every few days,

less often than before,

but more frequently than it should.

why do i hold on, fingers frostbitten,

when you've already forgotten about me?

i wonder, i wonder, i wonder,

while waiting for the train,

and standing flurries under dim lamplights,

even though it doesn't hurt me anymore.

— lies i told in february