Maybe I miss you.
I'd never admit that, though.
Maybe my underwear
is still carefully sorted
into what you took off of me
and what you haven't seen me in.
Maybe some days
I can't wear things you've touched.
Maybe you still slither into my thoughts
while I'm writhing under the covers.
Maybe I still think about
every
*******
day.
Maybe I spent an entire trimester of poetry class
writing about you.
Maybe not all of my poem were about the bad,
it wasn't all bad.
Maybe I never stopped loving you.
I love myself enough
to keep you out of my life, though.