I touch
his skin
with the
reverence
of a
rosary,
as solid
and sure
as
the faith
of a
blessed
saint.

Well darling
I hope you like
the
sad
bad
girls,
with a tale
she'll never tell
and a heartbreak
she'll never show.

In reality
I could not
keep him,
so instead
I wrote him
into every line
and weaved him
into every story
so that
he and I
could live
forever.

The cruelest thing
you did
by far
was make me believe,
for a brief
shining
moment,
that someone
could actually
want me,
and then prove
so conclusively
that
no one
ever
could.

Beware
of nostalgia,
for it is
a liar;
it bends
the past
like a prism,
casting
colours
onto the shadows
of how
it truly was.

His body,
I recall,
was a
smoking gun;
warm
to the touch,
but never knowing
where
or
when
the bullet
would bite.

Even those
with
the iciest blood
and
the bluest hearts
still have
moments
where they wish
there was someone
they could wake
in the middle of the night
and whisper
"This has happened to me
and it is not ok
and I am scared."