This one is.

It all feels heavy, all at once;

It comes and goes, but lately it stays a bit longer.

The fear of the unfamiliar dawns on me,

I am scared to face these infant days.

I relapse into what feels the most customary-

A small flower cup you gave me,

cradled in my hands;

One of the only things I have left of you.

Not every poem is about you, but this one is.

There are things I'd love to tell you-

How discouraging it felt to have

a job I thought I wanted, to think it would fix it all-

But it didn't. And how even my

successes feel like failures most days.

I'd love to tell you I got a promotion

At the job I only just started;

I changed rooms- I have sunlight every morning.

If we were still friends, I'd tell you about

The things I hated, things I don't hate anymore.

The taste of alcohol, sushi, coffee in the mornings.

I'd tell you about the sunroof in my car,

The tattoo that no one knows about.

I'd tell you I still love you, not knowing if I mean it.

I can't tell if I miss you or if I just miss

the feeling of not being a stranger to someone.