I can't help but think that when you're
     with her, you're not thinking of me. You
say you miss her and my chest tightens.
     When you say her name, my heart
stops and sinks a little because I
     wonder if you tell her about me. I
wonder if you've told her about the
     time you came over to my house at 2
am with that bottle of *****, or about
     how we talked for hours about your
family and how you hate God. Or
     how about the time we went to that show
together and everyone was sweating
     and jumping and how you searched for
me through the crowd? I wonder if you've
     told her about how our bodies were
pressed tight against each other, or
     how you were whispering the lyrics into
my ear like there was no one else there.
     I always wonder these things, but I
figure you probably

     don't.