I can’t get over it, I said

So don’t, she said.

 

Maybe the lesson

Isn’t getting over it

That’s unrealistic

Because getting over it means forgetting,

 

Which is impossible for you to do,

I know this, she said through 3am eyes.

Maybe the the best part of moving on

Is taking it all with you

 

And leaving the parts you can’t

Or parts you shouldn’t

Or parts that became too heavy.

Because it’s 3am and your heart is tired.

 

It isn’t getting over it at all.

 

It’s taking with you 3 a.m.

And the leather couches,

And ceramic coffee mugs,

And remembering the weathered cracks that lie in both.

 

Take with you the taste of burnt espresso,

But leave the way it scalded your tongue.

Take the buttery memory of his leather couch on your legs,

But leave behind the rug burns on your thighs.

 

It’s taking the hot sauce and hot kisses

But leaving the empty promises

Spoken, but not daring to live

To see the break of dawn.

 

Remember the way

He added tequila to the tea

And passion to empty conversations

Take that with you at every hour and every minute

 

Why would you want to leave those things?

Do you not like coffee anymore?

Or the way his couch molded to your body

Like he was your home?

 

When you lie awake at 3 a.m.,

Take the leather couches and coffee mugs

And the way a promise feels

When it is still a promise.

 

You must remember it,

She said.

But never, ever get over it.

 

That’s when I learned

At 3 a.m.

That getting over it

Is much different

Than letting go.

 

Don’t get over it, she said.

Let it go.