altho not really

i found today
that my head was full of poems of us
that i didn't want to write—

about how you broke my heart
into a million butterflies
and taught me to love disappointment
and inadvertently pushed me to become
most of what i am—

but i don't want to write that.

i want to write about cool tiles
and the texture of the wall
and finding comfort
where it's least expected
and finding pain
where there used to be comfort
and realizing that that means that
i have to grow up—

and finding treasure amongst wreckage,
salvaging lines
from poems that
stack up like junk heaps,
and valuing worthlessness.

i want to write something new and different
and more me than you
and shaped like wings
and scented like lavender—
like the whole bathtub full of purple petals
in the attic of the shop
that i visited with my mother
and grandmother
and three generations
of the eldest daughter
of the eldest daughter
of the eldest daughter
(i guess i'm going to have to have
a daughter)—

and next fall, i'm leaving behind my childhood
and you
and me, in a sense,
altho not really
for any of those things,

so in the end,
i usually find,
(no matter what i try)
that i've really
ended up
writing about us.