I was her,
the girl in those poems you wrote
the girl you lied to
the girl you wanted, but never enough
the girl you argued with when you were lonely, or bored
the girl you made up with just so you could do it again

I trailed you
obsessed over you
some of those poems were true
but I know they aren't about
me
anymore

Are not shadows in windows
But whispers of lost things on the late drive home

Seeing myself walk the side walk down the empty street
To your house
I still remember the inside

But we're driving
Not walking
I'm watching
Not existing
Another dimension

And it doesn't matter anymore

I'm not scared of the promises sewn into the carpet on my Aunt's living room floor
I hear them occasionally in a song
Or a joke
And I think about how maybe they could've been real

But I don't have proof
No photos
No witnesses
Just a letter I never sent
A poem unwritten
Blood on the pavement
A candle not burning


Anymore.



Not haunted
Just

Observing.

Seasonal depression
Opens the wound
Again

Can't go Christmas tree shopping
Or ice skating
Without noticing the
Chasm

I'd give almost anything

Just to feel loved
Like that

For a day.