Golden light floods the room
as dust slowly moves about.
It is quiet here,
but not so quiet that the silence is loud.
I can hear the air filling his lungs and slowly bidding them both goodbye with each passing second as he sleeps beside me.
What beautiful rhythm.

You move me.
You move me like sunlight on the dew drops of wild flowers.
You move me like the loud rumbling of thunder.
Like an intense game of laser tag; sweating and running and chasing.
You move me like Louis Armstrong's fingers on his trumpet.
You move me like my mother smiling down at me from the kitchen table when I was six.
Like Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band,
Like the smooth surface of my first hand-made bowl.
You move me.

You move me like the wind in my face when the car windows are rolled down.
You move me like my first paint set.
You move me like holding my first nephew, staring up at me with his small, blue eyes.
You move me like The Ground Is Lava.
You move me like the pen on this paper,
racing to scribble down my next thought.
You move me like snapping hair ties, like broken records, like drippy nail polish.
You move me like the rain drops on my window during a violent storm.  
You move me like a long, unwinding road.
You move me like holding my crying sister.

You move me like T.S. Eliot, John Green, Phyllis Reynolds Naylor, Neil Gaiman.
You move me like a fast swivel chair.
You move me like my first knocked-out tooth.
You move me.
You move me like my first kiss in the second grade, smiling and giggling and nodding at, "Do you want to do it again?"

You move me like your bruised fingertips.
You move me like nervous glances that are shot away when you look back at me.
Like our first hug, when I didn't want to let go.
Like my blistered feet when I snuck out and ran to see you.

Like the playful nudges when we walk rythmically side by side.
You move me like your slant rhyme.
You move me like my shaky leg.
You move me like the late nights spent looking at photos from my past.
You move me like new shoes on linoleum floors.
You move me like the purple bags under my eyes.
You move me like the first time you introduced yourself to me.

You move me like my first communion as a child; disrespecting the purpose to the practice and just wanting to down a shot of grape juice.
Like the printer that won't stop shooting out pages.
Like your tangled imagery and verse.
Like my first hat.
You move me like rushing water.
You move me like falling out bed.
You move me like when our hands accidentally brush against each other in the hallway.
You move me like refusing to give up and trying again.
You move me like the way I dream of moving you.
You move me.

It has been almost two months since I last felt the energy of your lips against mine;
I've forgotten for the most part the way they tasted after you smoked a cigarette out on your balcony in the cold.

I've learned by now that I'm at peace when I suppress the memories and pretend you do not exist.

That probably isn't healthy but at least it helps keep your ghosts at bay.

Some thoughts, though, are etched into my memory due to how much I tried to remember every little detail while we were together
otherwise I knew I'd forget-
how your pupils expanded and contracted,
how the sky looked,
how much the air weighed-
You and I both smoke often and don't put much faith in our memory but I'd be ****** if I didn't try to remember.

I think I tried so hard because deep down I knew what we had,
whatever we were
was temporary-
but it was pure,
and it was rare,
and it was so beautiful.

I desperately tried to remember you sitting there beside me the first night we were alone together,
walking around downtown and passing back and forth pineapple ***** in a bottle of mountain dew,
picking each others' brains,
talking about our past.

We became inseparable within days.

As puzzle pieces, we fit perfectly.
Even our friends thought we would be great together,
you and I both **** well knew it.

I still remember how far away you looked as you played the song you composed on the piano and that it was so ******* beautiful I tried to hide my eyes that were welling with tears.

I didn't care that you weren't really mine as long as I was still falling asleep in your bed and feeling you move closer and drape your arm over my waist in the wee hours of the morning.

Peering out of your window half asleep, I had the perfect view of the sky.
I'd watch the sun rise and look over at you and I felt like I was finally home, which was a relief since I felt unwelcome at every single place I had ever lived.

One night, your friend drove you over to my house;
you had drunkenly texted me saying you wanted a kiss.
I sat on the couch and anticipated your arrival,
trying to calm my pulse,
not having a **** clue the end was rapidly approaching.

After all, it's hard to see the end of the road sign when you're too busy looking at the breath-taking scenery.

Lying next to me on my bed in the dark,
you touched my face and whispered, "I think that deep down, even if we're not together, you are mine... and I am yours," and I believed you because I was always told that the truth comes out when the drinks go down.

We were so sweet to one another; taking each other's temperature while we were sick and lying together in bed just talking for hours on end.
We agreed time flew with one another. We kissed and laughed so much.
I was content.
I thought you were too.

We stopped seeing each other as much,
Our conversations dwindled and I could feel you losing interest.

I watched you slip from my fingers and I couldn't do a **** thing about it.

Less than a month later, I went over to your apartment and you were high on the couch with your coworker's legs draped over your lap; the same girl I tried to befriend.

I looked away from the eyesore but you pulled me back in with torturous small talk.
I did my best to seem relaxed but my thoughts were burning into my exhausted brain,
how could you?
I cared after you and you repaid me by rubbing salt into the wound.

I knew then that I had lost you and I did everything I could not to shut down completely.

My autopilot is a reckless flier;
always has been,
probably always will be.

But despite the sharp turns and rough landing, I have been going to bed before 8 am and remembering to eat.
I have been taking my vitamins and drinking water.
I have been getting high with my friends and trying not to think of your voice.

As ****** as it sounds, sleeping in the bed of someone new helps speed up the healing process, or numb the same wound that won't heal- I can't tell.

I know people are meant to enter and walk out of our lives at precise moments and that there are lessons to be learned in everything,
but I still don't understand.

I guess these things just happen
but gee, I wasn't expecting it'd be over so soon.

We never had closure and we're both with someone new now so these words, words, words are pointless,
but as long as they are still flowing, they are still alive which gives them purpose.

And that is a thing worth writing about.

We were a thing worth writing about.