What I want most is for these old songs to remind me of someone else.
For the scars on my hands to bring back memories of when I wasn’t fighting for your attention.
I wish the blood that burns in my face would be still when you’re around.
That my knees would buckle less when you catch my eye before casting it aside.
I want to break free from the cord that tightens round my chest every time you walk away.
I wish I could dream a little less and live a little more.
I want these old songs to stop dredging memories of you from the river’s depths.
That’s why I burned the bridge.
Because I’m worth more than the compounding list of could-have-beens dissolving into never-weres.
They fall like ashen snowflakes all around as the bridge is violently consumed.
I just wish these old songs would stop reminding me of you.