past the point

I was told that I had done a number on him. Months after, past the point where he was only loose tobacco from a broken cigarette at the bottom of the most obscure pockets of my memory. I felt bad, but no, no not really. The tobacco was so sparse that when I put my hand down that pocket and found them, my reaction was more of an “oh, oops” then a heart felt “fuck”. If someone were to analyze my love-life trajectory since him, one could say that I too had had a number done on me. But no, it wasn’t like that. When I broke up with him, I knew exactly what I wanted. Not this. And since, I haven’t found what I want. I don’t even know what I want. But I only have myself to blame… Not blame. It’s too pejorative of a word – I only have myself to hold accountable. And I embrace, in my single life, the freedom of answering only to myself. I sincerely hope though, that soon enough, he will loose the communal, possessive adjective "our", that so easily precedes the word "past" – the one we shared – and replace with its independent version: “my”.