“Do you still want her?”

(I still have a shirt she gave to me
I never wore it, nor washed it.
Yet it still haunts my wardrobe
Because it carries her scent.

She used my cherry chapstick once,
I never let it touch my lips again.
I like to think it’s a kiss to keep,
That I carry with me wherever I go.

I listen to the songs we used to like,
I hear them even more than we ever did.
The melodies remind me of only her,
And words are only ever about sad things.

I trace the lines on my hands sometimes
To think about when she did the same.
There seems to be a crevice in my palm
That has her name boldly engraved.)

“No, I’ve moved on.”