I want to back in that bookstore with you.

I want to sit next to you by the window
while we read together your favourite poet.

I want to watch your eyes skim the spines
as you search for something to share with me.

I want to feel your arms around my waist
as I scan the blurb of something I might buy,

because I enjoy reading with you
much more then trying to read you.

I miss feeling you.
Your grip on my thigh,
you caressing my hand,
you biting my skin,
you playing with my hair.
Wiping the grass of me
after trips to the park and
both your hold on my hip and
the bottom of my spine.

I miss hearing you.
The sound of your voice,
your attempts at sarcasm and
the way you’d laugh
when you really find something funny.
How you’d always swear in French
and speak to your Mum in Bulgarian,
the exhale you make when you’re happy
and when you’d sing in the car.
How your voice is barely audible
late at night and early morning.

I miss seeing you.
Seeing you cook,
seeing you drive,
the look of puzzlement
when trying to remember something
or the look of happiness
when you hear a song you love.
Seeing you buzzed and rosy cheeked
after a couple too many drinks.
Seeing you snug in my bed
at the end of the night.

I miss kissing you.
Lazy kisses, limbs tangled
in the early hours of the morning.
Kisses in the back of your car and
rushed kisses when saying goodbye.
Kissing your nose, kissing your neck
and you kissing my neck.
Kissing in the park, kissing in cafes
and kissing in art galleries.
Toothpaste kisses, prickly kisses
and kissing in one another’s beds.

I even miss the things that once annoyed me.
You always correcting my words,
getting frustrated when driving
and when you’d tease my lisp.
How’d you get up to change the song
in the middle of getting it on and
finish every intelligent ramble
with a defeated “I don’t know.”
Your need to check your hair
in anything reflective,
how you’d drink all my water
instead of just buying your own
and pick all the food I didn’t want off my plate.

I miss everything about you
and I hope maybe you miss me too.

Bruises scatter my legs
from falling over at the bar.

My throat burns dry
from tequila shots with strange boys.

My lips are swollen sore
from stealing kisses on the dance floor,

but my heart hurts the hardest
because I would rather have spent my night with you.

It was in your car we shared our first kiss
as I raced out to catch the train
and you caught my nose instead of my lips.

It was in your car I agreed to meet your friends
and you told me for the first time
I was beautiful when I smiled.

It was in your car new years day
you nearly crashed three times because
you wouldn’t keep your eyes on the road but instead on me.

It was in your car you decided that night
to take me to the park before home and
we danced in the dark under the stars.

It was in your car on that 40 degree day
we got half naked on the back seat and
made out the afternoon away

and it was in your car you broke up with me
on the way home from a weekend away,
where I realised I was in love with you.

Whether you have found someone
or you’re all alone,

you must remember the best relationship you can have,
is the one with yourself.

Just know I’ve never
been angrier at some one
in my entire life.

You have to know
nothing has changed.

I still want to write messages up your arm.
I still want to make mixtapes for your car.
I still want to leave kisses on your nose.
I still want to drink tea with you in the park.

You have to know that I still want to be yours,
if you still want me to be.

Do you still think of me
when you chew your gum?
(A habit of mine you inherited.)
Do you remember that spearmint was my favourite
and peppermint makes me sneeze?
Does the feel on your lips remind you of my kiss?
Does the taste in your mouth remind you of me?

Do you still think of me
when you drive in your car?
(Because I still haven’t learnt how to drive.)
Do you listen to the mixtape I made
for our one month anniversary?
Do you hear me singing along to each song?
Do you see me sprawled out under you on the backseat?

Do you still think of me
when you spray your cologne?
(You started wearing more so I could smell it.)
Do you remember me leaning over the table
to sniff you in that crowded café?
Does the feel on your skin remind you of my touch?
Do you still remember my scent?

Do you still think of me
when you listen to that song?
(you know the one by the band we both loved.)
Do you remember listening to it in my bed
during the early hours of the morning?
Do the lyrics still remind you of me?
Do you remember singing it together
moments before we broke up?

He wrote her a song,
one she never heard;

instead of his piano
he ended up playing her.

I’ve learnt sometimes the things you want
aren’t necessarily what’s right.

I’ve learnt that if it isn’t right,
then there is reason not to want it.

I use to love words,
but it was yours that broke me.

I don’t know if any essay you could write
could put me back together again.

You ruined my favourite song,
by my favourite band
and I hate the fact
it makes you think of me,

because I’m so sick
of thinking about you.

He studied law,
so I wish he’d had fought
a harder case for me.