10 miles. My current distance from the first time I noticed you cared. You were smoking ****. You blew the smoke away from my face. You knew I was allergic. You wanted to hold my lungs like cherry pits in the palms of your kitten's milk bowl hands, china dish. I wanted to thank you, I wanted to hand my heart over.

8 miles. The distance between me and you. The distance I tried to fill with footsteps, with begging rides from father, with bus, with FaceTime calls, with long texts. The distance that burned its way into my curtains, floated to my ceiling and stuck, burrowed its way into the night and sighed.

.8 miles. The distance between you and the person I replaced you with. The distance between a Red Dwarf and the moonlight that filled my heart up with Lindt chocolate and new yelling mother and darker messy hair and lower too loud laughs. I wash your favorite red plaid shirt from my hands and my Rolling Stones tank top, your cheek from mine, your jokes from my sheets.

0 miles. My current distance from the first time I noticed you stopped caring. I told you to stop flirting with addiction. You dragged your fingers up my arm, tied the tourniquet, choked out my blood, found the vein, breathed out hard, and then replaced me with all the drugs you could ever want and all the empty you could ever hold.

I guess some old habits never really die, only the people sick enough to try to stop them.