I keep trying to remember the way your lips tasted. Or how they felt brushing against mine while you breathed into me. I try to remember what your voice sounded like, the way you looked at me. I try to remember how your hands felt. My mind is making up for the nights I couldn't get you out of it because his face is starting to fill the spot in my memory where yours used to be. I can't recall the sound of your voice but I can feel his breath on my neck while his hands trace the grooves in my back and I'm starting to be okay with my conscience letting you go. My sheets are stained with a new scent, a spiced applewood mixed with drugstore hair gel and I can't help but bathe in it as it erases the smell of her skin on your mouth from the back of my mind. There's something different about you and him. He says he isn't going to leave with the kind of certainty that masks any sort of lie he could be hiding and the kind of desire that makes me forget to look for it. He touches me with a softness that reminds me that your hands were not meant for this body, a softness that comes from hands that will stay loyal to this skin.