That forgotten ache, that bruise faded yet still sore to the touch, the shoulder that was never quite right after the fall from that tree...
You are none of these things, no, you are a knife in my side, exactly where I pulled out the one I put there two years ago, you're my hand on the stove top, held stubbornly until the heat is too much to bare, you're the insides of my cheeks torn to shreds by my own teeth to keep me from voicing my thoughts.

You're memories I buried,
Concrete confidence and steel-infused smiles,
Structurally unsound with your sudden excavation.
You're my knuckles, ****** and raw, striking concrete again and again and again and again and again... And a few times more.
You're nights spent stirring, shifting, sleepless.
******* you're a ghost!
You're a clouds shadow!
You're nothing, a name and little more!

...and yet you're a face.
A face I forgot to forget, a face I saw today, after two years and... you're still beautiful, you're so beautiful and I hate you for it!
I saw you and I almost smiled, I almost smiled until you looked straight ahead, avoiding me with your eyes, blank-faced and silent, like looking at me would cost you, I wonder what the cost would be...
I hate that I wish you'd payed it.

So here I am, two years on and my first sight of you since...
A sighting and I'm back writing poems about you once again, how cheap the accommodation of my mind.