sometimes I wish I could read your thoughts,
but maybe that would be worse. because if I could reach into
your mind, I'd only search for the things I want to hear and end
up more hurt at what I didn't find.

it's been too many long months and longer nights and I
am tired of writing about you while making love to bottles
trying to forget the taste of your tears
the last time we kissed.

but I wouldn't dare compare your salt-stained cheeks to an
ocean because you are worth so much more
than overused metaphors.

I am tired, of trying to find rhymes to replace the words
you left in my mind.

and apparently writer's block only takes its breaks
while I've locked myself in the shower
because while these words finally come spilling from my brain
I am trying to scrub off what parts of you remain.

but. do I even want to? because every single time I see your smile
I am reminded that we lived, at least
for a while.

I am not sad anymore (maybe some nights I am)
maybe I'm okay with this, okay with having pieces of you
burned into my skin
because even though the fire we shared died,
the one you lit inside of me never did.