I never learned my lesson
"Stop haunting empty houses," they told me over drinks around my coffee table.
Their hands shook, too, but we all pretended to not notice when one of us stuttered our words or wasn't able to make lasting eye contact.
"You have to just move on," one said while they texted their ex and pretended they were liberated. I watched as my friends spaced out and took shots to numb the pain they buried deep beneath their floorboards, but they still heard the heart beats late at night.
"It's poetry, darling, and we're romantics," they cooed. There was nothing romantic about the way they cried themselves to sleep or spent hours trying to stop the bleeding when they cut too deep, but when you're unable to stitch yourself back together it's hard to do anything but nod.
Our eyes were all as empty as the night and we laughed about our pasts but we knew we would never be the same as we were back then, the same as we are tonight.
I never learned my lesson.