I play six clicks to you, like I used to look for Jesus on Wikipedia, when I find my weary fingers wandering into my healing wounds again, digging the cursor across bruises and sutures to links so you won't show up in my search bar.
I can play pretend too, like all the college students haunting the streets, moving straight faced and dead eyed past the homeless people holding their heads and fighting their hunger.
Your newly pierced nose sniffs out my high blood pressure, sweaty nervousness, and ***** haired demeanor; the shivering mourning dove perched atop rubble sings out shaky poems to your roommate.
You've walked into a new room and I'm standing in the hallway, trying to figure out which closed door I'll find you behind, pulling each one open in turn only to hear another swing shut in some ******-Doo style pursuit.
I keep your memory in my pocket, a tattered pin-up photograph, to pull out and glance at occasionally with glazed over eyes and a drool dripping mouth.
How does the other side of your bed feel, so full and pumping blood?
We both jumped in after eating, but you keep swimming and I find myself on the shoreline once more, grabbing for a towel, trying to push the water from my own lungs.
A pair of tan underwear lives in my dresser, splattered with stains from the **** you keep in your backpack.
I still wear them, and I can't help but think of you.
This is probably too honest for the internet but here goes everything