I'll be the one from
your past in the photograph that you ripped in half
Don't you worry though
because you'll be popular with all the girls when you tell them about me, they'll fall at your feet with half hearted sympathy, but you'll still be empty
And that platonic embarce will only leave you in tangled sheets because you're codependent and demanding and it'll cost her

And the worst part is history will repeat itself and someone will get me back and then I'll know what it's like for someone to leave me like that

But it has been good to hear you're doing fine, stable and over me
Funny how tables turns
And much as I want to hate you I only end up hating myself
And all that's left of us is the reason you're good to someone else

You needed wings to make you fill whole
but leaves still fell from autumn trees
And your breath with death
still leaves scars and
as for me I lost everything

I need something to fill this
void,
So I will beg for your
figure
And I will take to try and fill this empty
insatiable
inquietude
But still I am still greeted with empty hands
and
dejection

I
Have
Become a
Prisoner
in my own skin

I like to believe I've married all of my past lovers in some
parallel universe
I like to believe that somewhere somehow
our love isn't
Dead.

I want to memorize every part of
you
The shape of your thighs
The nook of your back
The velvet of your lips
And the siliken moans you make when I put my lips there

It takes 64 days to get over you
I stop counting on a cold inebriated night,
the dark forest hanging over my heart
and my footsteps echoing in the shirl silence of a wet hill.

It takes 64 nights to get over you,
64 blue evenings, 64 indigo skies without stars, 64 colorless dreams uneven sleeps, disjointed sleeps, and 64 dreams of forgetting.

I count 64 nights, three encounters with cold metal, two brisk walks in the pelting rain, and one soul standing two steps beside my own body, not yelling your name.