"you'll know it's real when it's a cure to your depression. You'll know it's real if your love for him overpowers your will to die"

my poetry is empty
I need to fill these lines with the world around me. The snow melting in my hands, the rain racing down the sleeves of my jacket, the wind brushing my hair. I need to fill my poetry with the purest of things. I have been writing polluted poetry. Fake love, fake loss, fake feelings towards people who no longer exist. I have learned that the way I exist and the way I write are what will keep me alive on paper long after I am gone. Immortal poetry. Poetry that can't help but be unconfined. Poetry that can make you question if what you feel is what you feel and if the way you think of yourself is real and if any of this is even worth writing about, I don't know but I'm gonna do it anyways. My heart is pumping the keys of violins, my veins are filled with lyrics that I can't quite understand but I'll keep singing them.  There's something soft about listening, there's something soothing about the ending of a song. There's something about how I used to write poetry that seems so wrong and I'm not gonna erase it but I wish I could go back and make a couple of edits in the ways I talked about love as though it's something my heart has ever truly felt before. This poem isn't going to be about anyone else rather than myself. This poem is going to be that old book that sits on the book shelf that no one reads anymore, but everytime they see it they think "God I used to love that" and maybe one day they'll look back and miss the smell of the pages. This poem doesn't have any sort of secret message so stop dissecting the phrases. Stop wondering "why did the poet use the violin instead of another instrument?" Stop analyzing it and maybe you'll hear a song playing in your head as you read it. This poem is raw, it's what's seeping from the tips of my fingers and for that I think it's quite beautiful. When do we ever let anything spill for long enough to see that maybe the puddle could turn into art? Who had the audacity to call some plants flowers and others weeds? Who gave them the right to decide what was beautiful and what wasn't?  Don't try to tell me that this is how it's meant to be, because in poetry there's no guidelines. There's no wrong words and there's no wrong lines. There's just me - and you. And thoughts, and spills and weeds and flowers and love and things I've never felt and I hope one day as you pass by that book on the shelf, you pick it up and read it. I hope one day you remember why you always kept it. I hope the front cover feels glad to have felt your finger tips. I know I did.

The apple never falls close enough to the tree.

I once carved poetry into your back with the nail of my pinky finger-  so that any girl who lays beside you can read the way I fell in love with your breathing after all the nights you found sleep before I did. Maybe they'll get a bitter taste in their mouth when they realize my love for you was not enough to make you stay.
You traced your fingertips on my skin as though I was simply a map that led to your pleasure. You sunk your teeth into my shoulders while pulling back on my hair because you were convinced that I couldn't feel anything; somehow its 3 years later and my eyes still read through our conversations searching between the lines for the reason you left.
You used to touch me as though your hand on my thigh was the key to my heart and my moans were the only ways of expressing my love to you but you'll never be able to read the poem on your back that says I could feel your heart beat on the mattress of my twin bed... its been three years and my sheets still smell like vacancy. My heart is collecting dust in the corners because no ones been in there since you decided it wasn't enough for you. I can't recall the rhythm of your heart and sometimes my lungs forget how to breath.
Its days like these I wish you were right about my inability to feel. But God knows there are more nerve endings in my heart than the place between my thighs and maybe if you wouldn't have ****** all the love out of me it wouldn't be as hard to see you go.
Its been three years.

If I knew what I know now, then, I wouldn't hold the feeling of regret in my hands everytime someone spoke your name. I wouldn't have let you drive away without you knowing that you're leaving someone who loves you. If I knew what I know now, then, this feeling of "what if" would not be a soundtrack playing in the background every time I miss you. I shouldn't have to miss you, but I also couldn't have made you stay. Sometimes I wish that you would have shown me that you felt the same way.. but the smiles from across the room never lasted quite long enough. I wanted to tell you that night we sat on my mother's couch, but then I asked myself if I was ready to watch you leave and the answer was always no. I wanted to tell you when we sat on my porch and watched the cars drive by as the sun set over my little neighborhood. The birds would have heard it and the sun would have given its last drops of light to my words... but they stayed locked onto my tongue and never made their way out. If I knew what I know now then, I would have written you a letter instead.
The words I love you come bearing too much weight, I have never been strong enough to risk slipping them through my clenched teeth because I always thought you would respond with a goodbye. If I knew what I know now, then, I would shot a gun at my fear and let the words spill like honey onto my lips.

Maybe you would have kissed me and tasted it.

Stay.
I begged. I've never been too good at begging, but I fell onto my knees as though the floor was the only one listening and I shouted. Stay. The vibrations of your feet walking across the room to the door I always kept unlocked for anyone who wanted to step into this empty space, where memories of us hang on walls as though they're clutching to not hit rock bottom as I have. You always told me that I was enough, that I was the chain holding you onto me. That I was the abandoned swing set in the backyard that you never wanted to leave, but that was too damaged for you to love anymore. So you stare, as if nobody's there to get your eyes away. Maybe at the end of the day the arms of gravity loosened their pull and let you go but let me tell you, that was the day I realized there's nothing good in "goodbye" and there's nothing more that makes me cry than your back turned away from me; that's if we're not counting the promise of no return. Ever since that day the mirror reflects a melting puddle  of "wait for me, you're going too fast", it was a cry from the past of everyone who's stepped out and never acknowledged what they were leaving behind. The problem with goodbye is it's as real as the promise to love till goodbye isn't an option. It's the promise to drip morphine into your veins so the doctors don't have to tell me its time to let go, we're in this together. Till the last breath isn't the breath of you or me; but of us. Because what's it worth to live a forever without the person who gave you hope on forever in the first place? And what's the point in walking away on somebody who's still got your finger prints on the sides of their face? There are always stories that will go untold, but for now I'm re reading the the volumes of your chiseled frame and protruding lips like they were abandoned in the attic. They sat with first kisses and locked fingers for so long they need to be dusted off by the same hands years later. Yours are alive, and cut and rough. Mine are tired, and fragile and soft. To this day, they still fit perfectly into each other. I don't know why I wore out so early, why I no longer found the will in me to do the things we did as young lovers. I don't know why I'd spend my evenings on dusty couches while you'd beg me to come out with you and watch the sun like we did. I don't know why I stopped trying, I couldn't stop the constant crying caused by a fear of time running out. I don't know why I ever feared time in the first place. It always went so fast when I was with you but as long as I was with you everything was okay. Everything was rolling like the days the tide was pulled higher by the tugging moon. Our picnics on the sand always ended too soon but that was never a problem because we could run home in drenched clothes, have the fun of tearing them off each other and collapse naked into the warmth of clean sheets. All these memories I keep reminiscing. All the younger days I keep missing, the clocks keep ticking and I have lost the one I want to waste away the minutes with. I guess as an abandoned swing set its hard to say goodbye to the growing child. And as the melting puddle in the mirror its hard to look as yourself and smile. But nothings as hard as being the only lover in the hospital bed with none of your morphine in my veins, and no hands to hold onto. No final breath for both of us. Only the realization that the only good in this goodbye, is that I won't leave me with memories of us. It'll leave you with the memory of me, clutching onto the walls so they don't hit rock bottom as I have.

A little girl knocked on my door today, flower bouquet in her hands and a smile plastered on her face as though its the only emotion she knows. She steps foot in without asking permission to. Her hair falls down the side of her face and I was trying hard to hide the tears that were streaming down mine. She didn't hide her curiosity
“Why are you sad?”

When her eyes looked up and met mine I felt ashamed that I could be uncovered by a girl who I seemed to recognize but couldn't quite pin out the memory of where. She hands me the flowers and their scent brings me back to a time that seems so clear, yet so distant.
I tell her I’m not sad, but rather sick. And the smile drops from her face as she says “Mommy says that too”

It woke a spark in the hollow of my mind to a time where I used to hear the same thing. Flashed back to a time where the only music I heard was the crashing of pans in the kitchen and the fall of hard liquor into small cups that were guzzled before I could taste them. The sound of yelling in the bathroom and glass being broken at 1am when the world was asleep. The whimpering of a small voice coming from the dusty couch in the family room, where our family never gathered in. The stumbling of my fathers intoxicated feet as he came up the stairs to pass out in a bed that was made for two. I remembered her skin stained purple, her eyes shot red and asking her “Mommy, why are you sad”. And with delicate hands that enfolded my face, she barely looked me in the eyes as she said “Darling, I’m not sad; but rather sick”

In that moment I realized that sometimes, they’re the same thing.
My throat dried up and hands felt numb as I grabbed the girl by the shoulders
“What’s your name and where are you from”
The smile vanishes, her eyes meet mine; with one look she gives me the answer I already know.

But before I can tell her that I remember seeing her face when I looked into broken mirrors, before I can beg her to not get into the habit of turning her skipping rope into a noose, before I get the chance to say that love is not supposed to be fists to the skin, and rough hands around fragile necks;

I blink and she’s gone.

I've come to the conclusion that it's possible to stare at the ceiling for so long you can feel it staring right back. There are some spaces on the walls that my eyes gaze onto for longer and there's some parts of my bed in which i'd rather lay. There was something about the way the sheets felt against my skin this morning that seemed as though they were trying to protect me from the truth this day would hold. There's something about the way the birds sang louder as if they were trying to overlap the sound of you leaving. There's something about the way I could feel a breeze from the door downstairs, as though you we're so rushed to get out that you couldn't take an extra moment to shut it properly. I should have seen it coming, I should have told you that you've mistaken. I should of told you that I never needed you but I never enjoyed the thought of waking up alone. There's something about the way you told me you'd never leave that sounded a lot like the way my father told my mother he loved her, I should of been quicker to point out the lie. But how do you tell someone to stay while dreaming of inviting someone else in? It was never you. It was me. Lately I've been feeling like maybe its less about the way 'i love you' sounded when i was saying it, and more about who was in mind; it was never you. I'm sorry that I'd only stay in bed with you till you fell asleep, you were simply a rain drop in the ocean. I fall in love with downpours. I love closed doors and black walls.
We're different. You're gone, I'm okay.

Somewhere, right now, soulmates are meeting.
Somewhere, right now, lovers are departing.
Somewhere right now, a lonely man is sipping the last drops of his fifth bottle.
Somewhere, a daughter is watching her father drive away for the last time.
Somewhere a little boy sits with a therapist locking words under his tongue.
Somewhere a blade is being introduced to raw flesh.
Somewhere, right now a young life is being put in the ground, with a psychiatrist pondering at what he could have done to save her.
Somewhere right now, pettles are being ripped from flowers by hearts wondering if they're loved.
Somewhere right now a nurse is changing the sheets on what used to be a death bed.
Somewhere right now, a ship is sinking into the bottom of deep waters that don't promise revival.
Somewhere right now someone is crying out to a God who doesn't exist to listen.
Somewhere right now hands are being held in the back of churches in remembrance of loved ones gone.
Somewhere a song is playing that brings tears to the eyes of ones who haven't lived long enough to feel.
Somewhere letters are being sent to houses that are vacant.
Somewhere doors are being shut in the faces of those who have never known what its like to crave loneliness.
Somewhere there are all these things.
I'm here, you're there.
I don't know where there is; but its lucky to have you.

I have been looking for poetry. I have been emptying drawers in search for metaphors to describe words too beautiful to roll off my tongue. I have been chocking on ways to explain this feeling in my chest and no
simile or imagery will settle because the result is always less than what I need to say. I searched under my bed this morning, I'm looking for a poem that would have convinced you to stay; a poem composed of concrete that would of kept your shoes planted here so that when the night broke to day I wouldn't of had to wake up alone. Alone in this house where picture frames of our love are hung on the wall and the carpet is stained with purple spots from that one time you made me laugh so hard and spill my wine all over it. Let me assure you I never tried to get the stains out, they were just as precious as a letter that I wrote you that never got mailed out because we shared the same mail box. And as long as I knew your address as though it was my own that's when I'd be sure that wherever I am; I'm home. I have been looking for poetry. I wrote you a letter and I placed it in our mailbox because I know you love when people write to you. I know you love the look of my handwriting when it's a message written to your name. I wrote you a letter telling you that I've never enjoyed a sunrise more than when the rays kiss our hardwood floor while we're dancing in the kitchen. I've never enjoyed a sunset more than when we're laying on the grass near that one tree and the crickets sound like they're urging us to kiss. I have been looking for poetry, and there's not one place in going to miss; I'm looking everywhere. I checked under the bathroom sink this morning where we stored those candles that burned the one night we got a bit too close, shut the windows and found ourself laying in bed running fingers along the inches of each other skin like blind men reading braille. I found poetry in the small of your back. The words wrapped themselves around your spine and made their way up to your carved shoulders. I don't think I had ever read anything more beautiful. It was as though our bedroom was a place of worship; and it's always Sunday morning. I don't want to bow my head because I'm too busy reading the prayer written in your eyes.
I'm looking for poetry. I'm not gonna stop looking for it because none of them are satisfying. I'm trying to find the poem the door mat and the porch steps wrote on the day you left. The day they wrote about the silence of your breath. And the delicacy of your steps as you ran away. The one about the cracked door you left open and the breeze that made its way upstairs and whispered the goodbye you couldn't find the courage to say.
I keep writing you letters. But they always find themselves in the mailbox by the end of the week. And I wish I'd find it in myself to accept the fact that our address is different now. Everything is different now. They say insanity is doing the same thing again and again, expecting a different result. Well I must be insane because I keep looking for the poem that tells me you leaving wasn't my fault. I'm waking up shaking in our place of worship and I'm hoping that maybe, just maybe it's God gripping me by the shoulders screaming "You are loved, you are loved, you are loved!"

It hasn't rained this hard in months, the window is tasting the wrath of the sky and I am laying, clothed in empty. Have you ever felt the weight of lids against your eyes? It's almost like the closing of the curtain after a play that should have never ended. I guess that's how I feel tonight. It's the first time that the tremble of lightning shakes the house and I don't miss you. It's the first time that the thoughts inside my head are being drown out by rain. Maybe this is why there are storms, maybe everyone is a little empty. I've always loved the roaring of thunder; I never loved you.

She's the open window and the closed door.
She's stale and bitter, but tastes as sweet as freshly picked fruit on days the sun rays make love to her skin.
She's everything she tried her hardest to be, she's everything she didn't want to become.
She's the kind of girl who drinks herself to sleep on Sunday nights, hoping to find him in the same level of desperation.
She basques in his absence, she grieves in loneliness.
She is not who she is, she is a side effect of who she was made to be.
I've never seen anything like her.
I've never known anything like her
I was always aware of her, but I never feared her.
I never knew she'd become real to me.
But I found her. I found her in the bathroom this morning.
I found her once my head came up from the faucet after swallowing six pills too many.
I found her in the honest glass.
She smiled at me and glanced down at my trembling hands.
I looked her in the eyes, and welcomed her home.

I've always contested this theory of time.
This counting of sands in hourglass bottles.
They always said time was in our hands.
But I didn't mind because the sun always rose, always set.
I never yearned to stop it. I never yearned to stay.
Until I met you.
Until I found myself in your arms in the morning till dawn
and it never felt long enough.
Until the words that made me melt into puddles formed time tables that showed a past moment I never wanted to escape from.
From the falling of snow, to the falling of leaves.
The hands on clocks were slowly gripping us by the shoulders;
tearing us apart.
Wars with the one thing we couldn't defeat.
Until kisses could hold time for a moment, we could never get enough.
Inserting coins into machines so that maybe hope
could fall out of the slot into our empty palms.
Once the days got shorter as the air grew cold,
we had to dig up for good memories to keep us holding.
Your skin had already been traced by my fingers,
your lips had already been pressed into mine.
there was nothing keeping us together other than not wanting
to wake up alone at the sound of beeping alarms.
To wake up calls tellings us that life doesn't stop for anyone.
The cold coffee that tastes as bitter as remembering the battle with passing minutes.
Some battles are meant to be lost.
We lost this one, we were left with learnt lessons.
I never bargained for lessons in the first place, I wanted to be left with you.
Wars are temporary. We we're supposed to be forever.
But once again, forever is controlled by ticking hands.
And ours were never strong enough to resist it.

You told me you didn't like the way I stared for so long at sunsets. Almost as though you didn't want me to fall in love with something that was leaving. What you never considered was that the most comforting thing about watching it leave was the knowing that it would come back even more beautifully at dawn. You told me you didn't like the way my cheeks shook when I laughed, so I began laughing less passionately. You told me you didn't like the way I bit my bottom lip when I was deep in thought, so I stopped getting lost in my own head. You told me you didn't like the way I whistled while making the bed in the morning, so my morning tune got silenced. You told me, you didn't like the way my voice shook when I told you how much I love you. So I began saying less often. I did all this, to make you love me more. I did all this because I wanted to be the reason that you didn't leave; I know you've spent your whole life running. I wanted to be the home you couldn't find yourself getting away from. I was clay in your hands and you moulded me into everything that I've never been. I wish I would have been enough for you to come home to. I wish that my kiss felt as welcoming as the front door mat. I wanted to be everything that I'm not for you, but I just needed you to keep me.

It's been months.
I've been bearing the weight of emptiness.
The absence of color on the walls and lipstick stains on post it notes I used to leave you.
The comfort i find in darkness is only there because light shows a world without you and its one I don't want to see.
Going back to the past is like a train ride with no destination on tracks made up of un-kept promises.
I'm sorry that I keep apologizing for still loving you.
I'm sorry that I keep waking up shaking in the middle of night, choking for air as I call out your name.
I'm sorry I still look for your face in the midst of crowded sidewalks.
I tried writing you a letter last night to explain to you the agony of living in this emptiness, but the pen broke, spilled ink on the page and I think it said more than my words ever will.
Despite the fact that you left me on the verge of breaking, I hope you're happy.
I hope that every cigarette you put between your lips knows how lucky it is to be there.
I haven't kissed you in months, but I'll never forget the way you taste.
I'll never forget the way I loved you when my named would roll off your tongue.
Nor the way it feels to be wanted by someone who could make love sound so bitter sweet.

Its uncontrollable.
The way people end up in our lives
The way people show up at the end of our lives.
The way people end our lives.
You were all three.
You walked in through the door I saved for someone I thought might be able to love me; the door with a welcome matt that looked more like a warning sign.
You walked in on the side of me that was only meant to be seen by the reflection I find in the mirror
Empty prescription bottle, empty liquor, empty heart.
And with the seconds passing I realized you came too late to have a chance at saving a life that I never got to live.
You try to turn back the clocks to see if I was better off before you came.
But time is a measure we convince ourselves has the power to change things.
Nothing can change other than the arrow on the circular board that points towards a past I can't seem to escape from.
Every breath is forced at this point.
So were my last few years.
The door was always open.
You just showed up too late.

Are you blind?
You're back on the conveyer belt, again.
You're fooled by that you see, again.
You seem to be getting closer but you're drifting further away.
You see hope on the horizon which turns to agony as soon as you get close enough to reach it.
You're heart is breaking at the thought of struggle
You're depending on the bottle, again.
The guzzle is burning your throat as you swallow any chance at revival.
Fingers turn to black, lips turn to black, mind turns to black.
You're crumbling with the ashes of cigarettes
There's no rebuilding broken debris anymore.
Hope is sunken beaneath you as you lay drunk on the floor.
Miles away from the conveyer belt, again.
No going back to where you're headed.
No heads or tails to change the situation.
No more gods willing to listen.
Its over.
Don't inhale.
Life wasted at the thought of making it
but giving up when you get a chance to escape your mind.
No press play, fast forward, rewind.
No more hands helping you out the gutter
You're already buried six feet too deep.
Your hands are on your mouth, again
Trying to quiet your screams.
No ones listening
No ones wondering
No ones there.
You've created this hell for yourself;
just lock the door as you leave.

They wait. They wait in the corners of your mind right behind the "no crossing sign" in an attempt to scare you away. They're everything you've ever tried to push away in any shape or form. If you're wondering what you've been trying to drown in liquor, this is your answer. If you're wondering what you've been hoping would crumble like the final ash of your cigarette, this is your answer. How do you run away from what you're made of? You've been trying. You've been destroying the darkest sides of your mind not realizing the cracks spread further than where you intended. So here you are, broken. The circle puzzle piece who doesn't seem to know where to fit. The grey flower in the field of colorful bouquets, cutting at your stem thinking the picture would be prettier without you in it. The picture would not be the same without you in it. Look at your veins, feel your heart. Sense the movement, the rhythm, the continuation of the pattern. You are made up of everything you've been trying to destroy. Someday someone isn't going to need an alarm clock, you will be their reason. Everyday when it feels like sun is kissing your cheek, it is because the whole universe is happy you're here. So stay. Let gravity be the pull on your body, let this be the pull on your heart; stay. May the music of the wind, the echoes of the water and your footprints on the sand be a reminder that this world would not be the same without you in it. And no, you are not the reason for the sun orbiting around the earth, nor are you the reason the seasons change. But you are a stepping stone to change, you are a future movement. You are a part of a beautiful cycle. Put your hand on your heart, feel the beat on your palm, look at your veins and hear the melody they resonate as the blood flows, hear the strumming of your eyelashes every time you blink, the harmonic symphony of air every time it enters your lungs. I beg you; don't stop the music.

twelve thirty-something in my sister's apartment
a moment of dancing and your lips met mine
tequila-stained breath and the sound of them talking
all disappeared at that moment in time.
Chocolate brown eyes and with a gaze I got lost in
What does this mean? Who is this guy?
your hands on my waist and the feeling of fire
all disappeared when you said goodbye.
Six months later you walk up my driveway
hands in your pockets, hair freshly done
lost in my sheets we spend half the day
How could this be? Is he the one?
One year later, we share the same bedroom
i sleep every night my head tucked in your arm
people's assumptions, is this happening too soon?
that feeling of fire is a slow constant warm.
You know all my secrets, we share the same hairbrush
we go and buy groceries, we laugh through the aisles
i know that I’ve said I’ve loved once before
but day after day you heal my inner child.
You hold my heart like it’s glass in your hands
Delicate and soft, precious as diamond
They always told me true love is worth waiting for,
but I never thought this was how I would find him.
I am yours in mind, and body, and soul
I’ll go through this life holding your hand in mine
and when our bones turn weary and old
when our breaths slow down and we know that it’s time
I’ll die smiling knowing I lived this life with you
we shared the best and the worst of our days
And when we depart I know I won’t miss you;
In every lifetime, I’ll love you this way.

I'm falling in love with you.

I'm sorry.

Please don't leave.

There are days that my head feels too heavy for my neck to carry. Days that I wish my thoughts had a mute button or I could scream loud enough for them to find their way out of my mind. The truth is the demons have made their beds here, they've hung their pictures on the wall and painted the walls grey. I think they're here to stay. They've been flooding the place too often lately and I've been meaning to stick an eviction notice on their door but got too busy trying to teach myself how to breathe underwater. I don't like asking for help, I'd rather stare at the people in the windows. What their life is like, I don't know. I still convince myself it's better than mine. I don't like admitting that the pain doesn't hurt anymore. Somedays I just feel it more than others. My screams are silent and my tears are dry when they stream down my face. No one hears a thing. No one see's a thing. I am the deer in headlights that refuses to move out of the way, but the car swerves around me every time. Death has invited me over for dinner and life gave me a curfew. I wish the blood on my wrists didn't stain the clothes of the people who love me. I just don't know how to live in this skin when being alive is killing me. When being alive is keeping them happy.
I don't think living is supposed to feel like hands around my neck. Maybe one day it won't be so hard to breathe.

We're sitting on a train heading north, you are in the seat facing mine. Your gaze is set out the window but your thumb continues to trace my fingers. I am staring at you- your eyes are tired and you're wearing that hat that covers up the hair you didn't have time to comb.  We have two hours till this train stops and I'm trying to take in every moment. Time has only ever ignored my whims for it to slow down when I'm with you. I watch the snow fall, I watch your hands, I feel your skin and I smell the air- a city scent...and pizza. I try to take in these moments because they seem to slip away far too quickly. Life has no mercy on young love; It will not sit still for us. The sun will set as quickly as it rises. Summer will turn to fall, Winter will turn to spring and through the passing of seasons, I promise to love you in a way that's so constant you won't ever dread the changes.
I have these dreams that I'm in a church dressed in white, your eyes are set on mine from the end of the aisle. The benches are filled with every version of myself that has ever loved you. They're all smiling because they knew this day would come from the moment I laid eyes on you from across the street that summer evening.  I never believed in love at first sight until I saw your smile for the first time. Faith came to me like a sinner walking into the arms of God. You saw me naked before ever taking my clothes off. You made love to the deepest parts of who I am and touched my heart in ways that left me shaken more than your hand between my thighs ever could. I fell in love with life the day you told me you could see yourself falling in love with me and I believed in forever the day you told me you did.
Here’s to forever,
I love you Dan.

I keep trying to remember the way your lips tasted. Or how they felt brushing against mine while you breathed into me. I try to remember what your voice sounded like, the way you looked at me. I try to remember how your hands felt. My mind is making up for the nights I couldn't get you out of it because his face is starting to fill the spot in my memory where yours used to be. I can't recall the sound of your voice but I can feel his breath on my neck while his hands trace the grooves in my back and I'm starting to be okay with my conscience letting you go. My sheets are stained with a new scent, a spiced applewood mixed with drugstore hair gel and I can't help but bathe in it as it erases the smell of her skin on your mouth from the back of my mind. There's something different about you and him. He says he isn't going to leave with the kind of certainty that masks any sort of lie he could be hiding and the kind of desire that makes me forget to look for it. He touches me with a softness that reminds me that your hands were not meant for this body, a softness that comes from hands that will stay loyal to this skin.