On the bookshelf, covered in a layer of dust, your picture lays face-down and forgotten.
I don't regret not saying goodbye.
Or maybe I do, just a little.
Sometimes, I forget things. I forget why I can't wear that red cashmere sweater anymore.
I forget why you left.
I forget that you didn't care.
Maybe, I don't remember because it's easier. Maybe I don't want to remember.
You never did... not the important things, like
putting your ring back on when you came home.
I looked out the back window the other day and saw a little blue bird with a broken wing.
It reminded me of you.
It reminded me of myself.
Sometimes I have trouble remembering the difference.