He kisses me twice
because I hate odd numbers.
He puts his hand on my leg when he drives
because my hand anxiously grips the handle above the door.
He holds my head to his chest
even though my fists beat against him.
He puts aside his problems
when I am hyperventilating.
And now he is gone.
He's someone else's.
Someone who doesn't care if one is an imperfect number,
someone who can smile in a car going 60 miles per hour,
someone who's anxiety doesn't resort to violence,
someone who can breath.
I miss him so much
I miss him so much that I lock the door once.
I drive my own car to the spot we used to park to relax.
I take deep breaths when my head is a mess to remember what it felt like to breath into his chest.
She doesn't know what it's like to need him.
I don't know what it's like to only want him.
He doesn't know what it's like to be free.