The Past Is What We Leave

The only thing that I can feel

is the silence on your tongue

as you try to find oceans in faucets

and excuses in dust-filled lungs.

And I hate the way the stars look

when I know you’re looking too,

the stars that I have always thought

felt closer to home than you.

And I hate the way the rain sounds,

and I know you hate it too.

And I hate the way I can’t forget

how much I hate hating you.

But you do not have to say you’re sorry,

though I know you think you do,

because the past is what we grieve and hate,

but it is what we leave too.