Your sweetness is the kind that stays even after coffee has gone cold,
like still bedsheets that have not been knotted by sleep.

Even after dust gathers, you're still here.

Little bites and notes of sweetness on my eyelashes, tops of my cheeks.

On New Year's day, I kept writing the date wrong. My pen inked the year before. It bled through the next page.

The feeling was so very similar to how I used to wake, my lips immediately finding the your name.

Only to be replied by cold, flat sheets.

The slight, vague outline of your lips still
sting like nettles- short & sweet- on mine.

You taught me different kinds of hurt.
And it's the most valuable lesson of all.

I write
to create a creased parchment of a map that I only can read.

Co-ordinates of where my fingertips, inner skin of my right wrist and ink have traced upon paper pages.

My first thoughts, a sweet whisper snuggled into blank edges of words amongst one dangerous idea- a f l i c k e r of a flame, soon to become an inferno.

Word strung together more carelessly than a six year making a beaded necklace. Yet they could not be more meticulously choreographed to spell out answers.
Only then I can remember the kind of places I go to when my sight is dimmed by something my chest and knees cannot quite take.