I'm starting
to notice
the
nicotine's
burn

I'm starting
to notice
that
it's the
only
warmth
I feel

Sometimes
I miss
you
and the
warmth
you brought then
and

Sometimes
I miss
summer
and the
endless
blissful nights

But
I'm starting
to notice
the
nicotine's
burn

and honestly
it's more
inviting
than I thought
and
I think
I'll let it
stay

Maroon, crimson, dark red.
Whatever color you want to call it,
it sits balled in front of me on my old bedside table.
You want it back because it has "sentimental value,"
your brother bought it for you before he went off to the military
and it cost him seventy dollars.

On the top shelf of my current bedside table,
at the back, hidden from light, from sight,
sits the ring you bought me that cost over two hundred dollars,
the ring that signified a promise that you swore you'd keep.
You asked if it bothered me to have, if it hurt,
and I told you that it didn't.
You said that I should keep it.
You say the hoodie has sentimental value but I sit here with a ring of mineral,
real diamond centered on its band,
coveted only by the box you presented it to me in when you tricked me into finding it,
when you told me you'd love me until the day that you died.
The ring that later represented not only our connection,
our relationship,
but our engagement that I hear you're denying ever happened.

You did not ask for the ring back.

You never said that it held "sentimental value,"
but your seventy dollar hoodie from the brother who has given you
fear to be touched by unprecedented betrayal,
does.

I cannot help but wonder how you are not bothered by an item that once held such meaning
no longer being in your possession.
I cannot help but wonder why you have not mentioned it.
I cannot help but wonder if you hear a certain artist in the car, or with friends,
and think of me but do not say anything in fear of making a scene.
I cannot help but wonder if you are still in love with me.

If a hoodie can hold such sentimental value and the ring you proposed to me with does not,
did the words
" I love you "
mean less than
" I'm trying to get over you "
when you said them within a week of one another?

Am I never meant to know?

I fear I am not privileged enough to know whether or not these words,
these things that have passed through my life were ever meant to mean
more than a cool March night of lying on the roof of your car,
staring at the constellations and wishing to be with you forever
when I saw the shooting stars.
I fear that I am no longer privileged to say no one knows you like I do.

You said you wanted your hoodie back,
and I told you that I found it.
You said you'd find my clothes as soon as possible
and I told you to take your time.
I told you not to push yourself too hard.
I didn't want you to hurt anymore.

I don't know what to do with your hoodie, though.
It's moving from my bed,
to dresser,
to bedside table
to bed
to dresser
to bedside table
and I wake and see it and think of you
and I wonder if I should put it on when I go for a walk
because it's warmer than anything else that I own,
but I don't,
because it has sentimental value.

I do not.

All I've been thinking about the last week is how you promised that
Under any circumstances, leaving was never an option.
Still, I'm glad you did, seeing as I never would have realized
That I was causing you such trauma.
I'm so sorry, because you never deserved anything like that.
Not from the person you loved.

Just so we're clear, I still love you,
Although I'm not sure if it's in the same way as before.
Maybe it's just the fact that our connection made us inseparable,
Even on our worst days.
Sometimes I wonder if I just love you as a person now.

Regardless, I wish the best for you and everything you do.
Every day has made me realize what mistakes I made.
In case of you reading this and  
Considering the promises we once made each other, I
Hope you can move on from them to someone better than I,
Or maybe even come back when I'm more mature.
Looking back, I'd just like to remind you;
Dear, you're lovely, and deserve the world... and that wasn't me.

The day that we met, I watched you press a cigarette to your lips and laugh.
I cringed.
How could a paper stick filled with nicotine leaves and other little ingredients
bring a satisfying, calm five minutes?
We talked about how you were trying to stop,
and how I’d never, ever smoke myself,
and how that was a good thing.
We laughed.

Six months later and I haven’t seen your face in over a week.
A month ago, we were lying in your bed talking about how we’d
always love one another and always have each other,
and you pulled out a cigarette.
You reiterated that it calmed you down but I just grimaced.
How could a paper stick filled with nicotine leaves and other little ingredients
bring a satisfying, calm five minutes?
I wanted to ask again, though I know how addiction works.

You can’t really explain it.
All I’m sure of is you always know you could quit one day.
What I don’t know is if you ever really wanted to.

I took a walk to clear my head of the memories of you last night,
to get some fresh air for the first time in over a week.
It was overall ironic because as I tried to forget you,
as I breathed in the fresh Wisconsin air,
I pulled out a cigarette.

I stared at the rolled paper between my fingers,
and I saw your face.
I could smell you through the air,
taste your lips,
and wondered if I could really replace that connection in my head,
if you really should be represented by impending death and
overwhelming scents that never really fade.
I wonder because I know at heart, you were never made of tar,
you’re just sticking to my mind longer than
you ever really intended,
it was just what you were made to do.
I know you were never made to remind others of death,
though I know you wanted to be a few times.
I know you’ve encountered it and
I know you think about it at least twice a week.
You’ve always reminded me more of a sun,
because you’ve always been bright in my mind,
you’ve always been something I looked forward to seeing,
something that warmed my heart just by stepping into my presence,
you remind me of a fresh gasp of breath,
and that’s why I put the cigarette to my lips.

That’s why I lit it.

That’s why I started smoking,
Not to think of you,
Not to try to remember your taste,
Your scent,
But because
if a cigarette became my ten minute escape,
it’d be my go-to,
and you wouldn’t be.
I could get the calm you experienced and not experience you,
I could feel something other than missing you.

When I snuffed out the ****,
I was actually smiling.
I felt free of you,
free of the holds your love brought to me.
For twenty minutes,
I felt complete happiness without thinking about you
for the first time since we met.

So that’s why next time we see one another,
when we do become friends again like we promised
each other that we would,

Next time we meet,
I’ll press a cigarette to my lips,
and I’ll laugh.
We’ll talk about how you were trying to stop,
and how I’d never, ever smoke myself,
and how that promise was temporary,
just like us.

Just like the cigarette.

I've been battling my empty heart
by leaving my stomach clean
Honestly it's feeling easier
than it's almost ever been

To be completely honest,
I've lost track of time since the moment you left.
At 7:34 I thought it was 8:00.
I thought today was the 20th.
You left four days ago and it feels
Like four minutes.