I think you are ‘that’ one. Not ‘the’ one, but that one that I compare everyone to. 

I don't love you anymore, but I think one day I may get married, and I will be happy and my husband may do something to wind me the wrong way. And for a brief moment my mind will take me back to us. To how you used to make me feel, and a comparison will be made.

I talk to guys in bars and they are great, they aren’t you - but they are still great in their own right. 

You made an impact on my life in all the best ways; and there is no bad blood. I treasure the short time we spent together, but  I think you have set the bar for me.

My throat gets caught when something reminds me of you. When our song comes on, or I pass by the place we had our first kiss. It gets stuck, and then suddenly my chest gets stuck too because these memories become infected with pictures of you, but not with me. With her. Her, with you, because it’s not me anymore. It’s her.

You probably tell her that she’s beautiful, because she is and you’re kind like that. And you probably give her rides home in your stupid pickup, with your hand on her thigh because the space between you is too far. You probably reach up and touch her cheek gently, and then kiss her the way you kissed me, and then you probably pull away with the same look on your face that you had when you were with me; because you’re a romantic like that.

You’ve probably already forgot about the nights we spent in the back of your truck, holding each other and staring stupidly into each other’s eyes murmuring stupid stuff that now torments me in my daydreams. And you’ve probably forgot about the fact that you used to love me the same way you love her now. You’ve probably forgot all about me, while I’m stuck here thinking all about you.

‘Girls like you’ your mother says
‘are going to be disappointed a lot.’
She’s chopping coriander so fast that her hand is a blur
and you’re 12 and you’re standing
like a tremble, grubby knees and tear stained cheeks,
an offering in front of her
‘Why?’ Your voice is a quiet shake.
She puts the knife down and calls you ‘jaan’
she holds your face in her wet hands,
you don’t flinch because this
is what love looks like
she kisses your forehead like forgiveness
‘because you mean what you say,
you think other people are the same.’
She tells you that she spent four years
trying to learn their language
but people ask how you are
and walk away before you can tell them.
‘I’d rather be silent.’ She says.
‘At least being quiet is honest.’

You’ll come home seven years later
wearing your heart like a bruise
on the inside of your sleeve
‘mama,’ you’ll say, voice like a thunder crack
‘he said he loved me, and I believed him,
I shouldn’t have,
I think that he lied.’
She’ll be older then, but she’ll kiss you
just as tender, just as birdlike.
‘Is it my fault?’ You’ll ask.
She is half lioness, half woman. She is all roar.
‘Listen to me’ she calls you her soul again.
She says it in your language so you know
that she means it.
‘You are so infinitely tender,’ she takes the frown
of your face in her hands and holds it carefully

'People will not always know what to do with that.
You can’t ever be sorry for the way you loved,
You can’t be sorry for who you loved.
Don’t ever let them bend you backwards
don’t let them make you hard or bitter.’
Her voice turns into a growl

'You did not get this from me.
Somewhere inside of you there is rain.
Somewhere in your stomach,
something beautiful is growing
and it is infinite.
Don’t you let them try and take that from you,
you are open and you are a flood,
someday someone is going to want to die in you.’