I wonder* if he thinks about me the way I think about him

I wonder if it was hard for him to leave me like it was hard for me to let him go
Does he stop what he's doing when our song starts playing or does he simply skips it onto the next?
Does he lie awake at 2am wondering what could have been?

How long did take for him to switch my nickname in his contacts to my first and last name?
How long did it take for him to tell his friends?

I ask all these questions but never get any answers.

I get a phone call.
It's two in the morning. His nickname pops up and our song is playing as the ringtone. My friends don't know.
& I'm constantly thinking about him.

I pick up.
He's drunk.
And I hear another girl's voice in the background.

your side of the bed lies unmade

wallet and keys lie scrambled on the coffee table

your ***** clothes lie scattered on the floor

your anxiety medicine bottle lies on your side stand

your scent graces the air while on the table lies an ashtray over powering it

dishes needing to clean lie in the kitchen sink

empty whiskey bottles lie on the kitchen counter

but one thing lies missing,
*you.

He's changed. You've changed. Everything is changing.
Your first love isn't always the last one
But it will leave you with a numbing pain inside you
You'll cover the pain with someone else
To the point you don't even realize it's even there
But you'll remember the night you cried your eyes out in the shower as the hot water pelted against your skin and when you got in your room, all you wanted to do was scratch the paint off your walls because they held the memories of every kiss, touch, and conversation between you and him
But it will change
Because that's what happened in the first place

You changed. He changed. It's different, and it will still be different ten years from now but the pain won't be.

I have nervous break downs at just the mere thought of you
oh how I ponder why that can be

You're complex, all the way down to your mix matched socks
The smell of you is like no other
it's not comfortable nor is it worthy to be romanticized
You smell like cigarettes and ******* hair dye

Your brown eyes are better than love-sappy blue eyes
which makes me want to write how a caramel set of eyes are better than clear oceans because it would be for all of the wrong reasons

Your letter doesn't do any justification to the anger in me
I can't romanticize you because suicide isn't love
it's not a trend
it's a deadly thing
but I ponder
if it's a deadly thing
why do I find myself still writing about you?
Poems are just as romanticize as suicide is but yet here's a thing about both

I'm shameless because I expose every little experience I have on a piece of paper

I have dreams of maybe one day being alright
and not having to settle with just being 'fine'.

My hand aches just as much as my heart does; working too much, or too fast

The qualities I have are like no other
because I'm indeed a writer