I keep having dreams about you holding her hand. Somehow I’m standing right in front of you but its like your looking through a pane of glass; sharp and see through, like there’s nothing left but your reflection. It’s always been about you; I knew that. But when you held my hand I thought you could read my skin like a page covered in brail.

I keep kissing him and remembering the way your hands traced my face. The moon left us in the dark, searching for the sun’s warmth. He made me feel like a piece of art, watercolors bursting from a canvas but he left me to hang on the wall.

I keep thinking that it’s better this way, but when I took out the trash I felt just like the aluminum can as it clattered to the floor. Empty and used. Nothing but traces of drunken fingerprints against a label that no one cares to remember. Memories rising to the back of your throat only to be swallowed down like a pill you take to cover up all the places where you’ve been broken.

I forgot that loving you was like pouring a bowl of cereal and then running out of milk