Going with the wind.

And darling, you knew that no matter what you did I would still stick around so instead of playing your cards carefully, you flung them at my face like a game of pick-up-52. Except this time the 52 cards were 52 pieces of me; each piece that you had broken but managed to pick up and keep safely.
Now my pieces are scattered all over the floor and they're blowing away in the wind.
Would you like to know what feels worse than knowing you don't want to pick them up anymore? The fact that I don't feel remotely like chasing them one last time.

Now I'm just riding it out, waiting for that last piece to blow away.
Let go.