We were people who loved each other once.

How nice to wipe that from our tongues.

To acknowledge the love as existing outside of us.

A relic we outgrew.

We pump our elbows. Make references to it.

Joke at the weight of it in a Rue Crescent bar.

How nice it feels to try on old selves

like coats in a fitting room.

To examine aspects of yourself you let go of

in a three-way mirror and not feel regretful

for shrugging yourself clean of them.

And how nice it is to say his name in this town.

I hold its newness inside of me—

a small pearl of warmth, a place to hide in.

When I leave the bar early,

surrounded by the group of my old friends,

I wrap it tightly around me.

Here I whisper his name until

every self I have been

is singing along.