The Art of Losing

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

it’s the only thing I know how to do.

I lost my home to come here and swore

to leave in a third

of a calendar year.

There is nothing I will let myself love;

I will soon only see it gone.

So now that he's what I am thinking of

I must make myself move coldly on.

And though on this porch

I can see to the edge of the world

and watch the sunset until 10 p.m.,

I must blow out this hopeless torch

and leave

(and try to forget about him).

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

it’s the only thing I know.

First bitter—then numb—

then letting go.