"This is nothing," she says (like nothing is the touch of her lips or kisses of freckles or anything she says with her eyes that I'll miss when she turns away).

"It never was anything," I say (like never is the day I first met her and was swept under the current under the water under the sheets under her skin)

So we go now (so it goes, going, gone) our separate ways-
In a parking lot at midnight (asphalt gravestones and keys in our hands and does it say something about us (about me) that we're safer walking home alone in the dark than we ever were with inches between our hands).

No one ever told us we shouldn't try to make ourselves two of a kind but it's too late now (we meshed the parts that hurt and the buzzing of the streetlights reminds me of her and the way she looked at 2am when I first realized that she no longer made me smile)