Sometimes I sit in silence,
and contemplate the world I once knew
while I stir the contents of my glass
and feel the burn of tequila grace my lips.

The sun sets in an uneven shade of red,
and unfortunately all I see is you
hidden within the ungodly gray clouds
that slowly pull the night upon us.

It has been three years now, and I'm over us.
But there's still a longing to know what
really happened, and why you left.
Do you ever stop and think about me?

The sea salt no longer stings
when I open my eyes under the waves.
I’ve cried more than enough tears to be
numb and succumb to this endless ocean.

I'm completely submerged with eyes closed
but I dream of your hands pulling me out
of the dark depths and untangling the seaweed
that has wrapped itself around my ankles.

As I gasp for breath when I finally surface,
it's only then I realize how alone I am.
So I dive back underneath the currents
waiting for the undertow to pull me away.

Our fingers brushed in the gallery opening
not so long ago,
we were in a room full of art,
which only made me crave you more.

It reminded me of your hands,
finger-painting like a child using watercolors
onto my blank canvased soul filling in
every part of me that was missing colors.

Now, everything is in black and white.
When our fingers lightly brushed again,
I felt the flood of rainbows and stars rush back to me
before disappearing behind me, following you away.

One morning with a tired mind,
I aimlessly stared into my coffee,
eyeing the cream as it swirled in circles,
and it reminded me of the time we danced
in your kitchen at two in the morning,
and you pulled me into your arms so close
that I could smell the whiskey on your breath.
The world passed by around us in pirouettes
of blurry madness and drunken bliss.
Sometimes it makes me wonder why
the rain on my window pane doesn’t echo the
words you last said to me while we stood alone.

My hair is an untameable wave that cascades
down my back and is an even flowing river that drapes
onto my shoulder blades and biceps.

As I sit in the swivel chair waiting for the scissors to
shear off the last dead ends, I think of you.
With these ends, you'll be disappearing, too.

You haven't touched me in over two years, now.
As wisps of hair drop off onto the tile below my feet,
I can be rest assured that a new beginning has dawned.

Our fingers brushed in the gallery opening
not so long ago,
we were in a room full of art,
but you were the only masterpiece I was looking for.

I still share stories of us...
to strangers, and to people that never knew you.
I paint a lovely picture of those memories and my tool is the knife you left stabbed in my back, right between my shoulder blades.
The blood has this thickness that helps portray this realness that
is unlike any other medium once it's delicately laid upon a canvas.
I've passed your apartment stoop, hoping you'd be sitting there with a stale beer and a cheap menthol drag dangling from your *******.
Even though it's never you sitting there, the same stench of *** and
the aroma of Svedka still drifts around the humid city air.
It causes a whirlwind of emptiness in my head and I'm never
able to clear my thoughts of you completely.
When I look up at night and see the millions of stars making their headlining appearances in the dark, I always wonder if we'll ever be
discovering the exact same one like we found each others hearts.
But then I remember, just like losing sight of a star in the sky, we lost each others hearts and you chose to never try searching for mine again.