I think about you in the morning, when I’m washing my hair
when my fingertips feign yours and if I close my eyes, I can almost really feel you.
as I’m putting on my clothes, there you are again,
your hand resting on the small of my back.
when I’m walking to work, our hands once intertwined,                         
I feel your leg brush against mine.
And as I’m drifting off to sleep, I hear the words you whisper
little daggers in the night, piercing through the slumber
the fingertips start dragging, nails cutting
and your hands sliding up the nape of my neck, tightening.
when I wake up from that nightmare,
you no longer seem that delicate.
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maybe round two will prove for tougher skin, not as easily bruised
and maybe the second time around, that pit won’t be as deep
that sinking feeling won’t have as far to drop
the next time my heart feels pain, scar tissue hardening,      the reverberations won’t be as jarring
and while the assumption is there, that it won’t disappear completely,
I can hope for numbing overtime, like winter slowly closing in on my toes
you can barely feel the cold anymore