I’ve been folding my old love poems into paper stars.
I know I’ll need the light more soon than the memories.
My breath follows me when I walk, like a long stream of ghosts I kept locked in my chest for too long. I don’t mind the company. Nothing hurts under gray skies for very long. Not even goodbye. Not even when he said it like we would never see each other again. And we never saw each other again, but it didn’t matter.
I spent my whole life teaching myself how to heal. How to stitch the skin back together and scar. I live with my bones and my blood – with my heart, that waxes and wanes like the coming moon. Still, I don’t mind remembering – after all, this life has let me forget so little – and every little bit of it I use.
In the approaching dark of autumn, I hang the paper stars from my ceiling.
I do not worry.
I can make my own light now.