I reminisce a simpler time.
I listen to Lana Del Rey past midnight as if it's 2013 again,
pretending her graphic imagery is my actual life
while I search for my exes on google since they don't use Facebook,
wondering what ever became of them.
Is my high school sweetheart happy he got married and had a family with someone that wasn't me?
Did my college boyfriend ever snap out of his depression and regret breaking up with me in the middle of the night at his Boston apartment leaving me to wander the streets aimlessly until the sun rose above the city skyline?
As much as I crave answers, unfortunately my google trail runs cold.
If I had blinked twice, would my life had turned out that differently?
And if it had, would I even want to be me?

Your last words are still the fuel to my insanities,
and they never seem to run dry.
They're a force to be reckoned with,
and dare I not even try to understand.

"Do we hug, shake hands, or should I just walk away?" I asked.
You smiled that same smile and reached your arms around me,
and you whispered, "We hug."
You told me goodbye, and that was the end.
I never once saw you at the train station,
and I never did pass by your figure in a store window.
You were gone with the wind,
and sometimes I wish
that you had let me go
with you.

At this time last year, I was a
mess that couldn’t be cleaned up
with the simple flick of the wrist
or with the sweep of a broom.

I have been moving and lifting furniture,
trying to remodel the abandoned corners
of my soul that haven’t been touched since he left.
It has proven to be therapeutic to me,
and has healed my heart in ways that
putting things in the metaphorical boxes
to ship off to far away places couldn’t do before.

I’ve been painting the walls in my newly hollowed ribcage
so the sound of my heartbeat can echo against
my bones once more, and not be held back by the stitches or
makeshift ties that barely held my brittle body together.

The blood splatters from my nose
like a volcano erupting lava
and it tastes metallic
to the point I can't recognize
my own taste of nothingness.
The bruises leave traces of where
your knuckles made contact
with my pale, freckled skin,
and seem to fade to an unattractive
color spectrum of green, gold,
and a rich lavender purple.
I used to believe that I was your savior,
and the best of you was hidden someplace
twenty leagues beneath your skin.
Unfortunately I discovered that
I had only sinned among the most
experienced of sinners,
and I was never going to be the one
to pull you into the heavens of my embraces.
All that was left to do for me
was to leave you to your hell
and hope that it would bring me
inner peace.

The stars burning in your eyes
used to be the diamonds
of the rough days we passed,
and the success seared
golden like a California sunrise.
When your lips pressed against
the crooks of my collar bones
and eased their way to
my gaping mouth,
you left me stranded
with the longing and passion
of what we used to be.
Now it’s 3am and I’m alone,
wondering where you’ve gone
and why you didn’t take me with you.
When we pass each other on the street,
the stars I once knew
in the workings of your eyes
have been turned to merely the shine
of a dull glass you might find
on the shelf of a second hand store.

Your lips -
they parted like the Red Sea,
dripping words blacker than ink
across the blank page
that was my body.

Your hands
smelled of vanilla,
but rough like granules of sugar
stirred into teacups.
Your fingers,
they teased me,
snarling along my ribcage
as if trying to tie flowers along
my weeping torso.

The connection was instant
like a polaroid picture.
But the love was slow
like when a bump turns to a bruise.

And it faded, too,
just like all wounds do,
love does too.