Walking outside, I feel the cold before it really hits me.
The loneliness of the campus after night class amplifies the bone-deep chill sweeping between cement buildings.
It’s nights like these that are the worst for my memories of you.
This liminal season, the bridge between fall and winter, is ruled by you.
The rough texture of your wool coat
brushing against my soft cardigans and billowing scarves,
the opaque black of your irises apathetically gazing down
into my upturned, wide-open ones,
liquid chocolate and trusting.
These are the things that plague the colder nights,
particularly when I’m on my own.
The evening drizzle descends and ****** my skin, as if trying to drive the memories deeper.
**** you.
I try to shake off the droplets, but they cling to my clothing, unwilling to let go.
Part of me pretends that when I arrive at my car
and turn on the heat
and the steady thrum of the engine drowns out the silence of solitude,
that the memories this weather brings will fade away.
But I know that's not true.
I want you.
Even now.
With the knowledge that behind your charming, lopsided smile,
you're a disorganized monster,
I should be able to tamp down the recollections,
like weak, sizzling embers.
Instead, they flood into me as the rain grows colder,
and I grow more numb.
Images of you,
unruly, wind-blown locks,
just begging for my caress.
You scent clings to you, a heady mixture of old books,
paint,
sawdust,
and tobacco.
From your lips, your cigarette dangles as if it belongs there,
taking a drag with all the nonchalance of a person slowly killing themselves,
and enjoying it.
In this particular memory,
I stand beside you,
as opposite from you as one can be.
The scent of the jasmine oil I bathe in floats on the wind, wafting off of my soft, pink scarf,
and my white coat conceals every inch of my body, from neck to knee.
But you,
your coat wide open,
gaping in the wind,
reveals the taught, black t-shirt  underneath,
narrowing into long, lean legs,
that I can't forget,
can't forget what they look like crossed,
stretched out in front of you as you lean back in your chair.
I'll never forget that image.
And, unfortunately,
I'll also never forget the sound of you
saying that I'm not enough.
Your tone suggests that I'll never be enough.
And it's not a rejection of my affection.
Just a fact.
I'm not enough.
When you're near,
I can have what I want from you.
But it's a passive action,
and no matter what I take from you,
it always feels as though I'm the only one giving.
And of course
that I'm not enough.
Reaching my car, I fish for my keys,
the familiar fluttering of my chest reminding me that I'm not safe,
a woman lingering alone in a parking lot,
but soon, I'm in the comfort and safety of my car.
The intimate and achy feeling of being somewhere I know,
but still feeling unwelcome,
wrong.
I sigh,
my breath coming out in a cloud of vapor in the cold, stale air of the car.
Even here, visions of you appear out of the corner of my eye,
vibrating with the hum of the radio,
and yet another memory crawls up my throat.
You,
breathless,
reaching for me,
because you've succumbed to the ferocity pumping in your veins
and clawing your fingers,
digging into my hips and my hair,
with complete disregard for the ornate pins holding it up.
The windows are frosted with our breath,
and from the speakers croons an indie singer,
singing something about her self-worth,
because "what good is she
if she can't speak her mind?"
At the time,
my only concern was how to steal your words and your breath,
straight from your lips,
but now,
I think back,
as I peer through the downfall on my muddled windshield,
and wonder...
what good am I?
If I'm not enough for him,
what good am I?
If I'm not enough for anyone,
what good am I?