Discarded

I don’t want to be one of your phases
a glorious two-week infatuation
like your foray into oil panting
or that half-month you were going to be a photographer

I don’t want to be a temporary distraction
some new shiny thing to take up your attention
like the week you were going to play piano
or when you trained for but never ran a half-marathon

I don’t want you to fall in and out of love with me
all wrapped up and then discarded
like the boxes of how-to books
and shells of all those hobbies you were going to take up

I don’t want to be one of your phases
a short-term too-bright version of what I’m looking for
if I only get to be one of your phases
I don’t want to be anything to you anymore