For a few months,
you’ll think you’re making progress;
don’t fool yourself,
You haven’t even started.
Everything will smell like him.
Your pillow,
your clothes,
even the air.
You'll even still have their cards and photos
lined upon your bedside table.
You'll get drunk,
and you'll send them poems you wrote,
and songs that remind you of them.  
They'll tell you you’re a good writer,
and this will be the last real thing
they ever say to you.
You'll find you won't be able to write
if it's not about them,
they still plague your mind,
your thoughts,
and your dreams.
The first poem you write that’s not about them
will feel like victory at last.
It won’t be.
They'll always find a way
to slither back into your words.
Your friends will keep listening to you weep,
as they weep over the one that got away too.
They come and go in the middle of your favorite songs,
between each beat you see their smile,
and their beauty in every piece of art;
their beauty in every stroke.
Whenever someone asks you what your favorite color is,
you just want to say 'their eyes'.
They light up like a lake in twilight,
like the moon you shared your first kiss below.
You'll want to go back there for closure.
You still haven’t done it yet.
You aren’t ready to let go.
If you do go you know it'll only make it worse.
And for the rest of your life,
you will be hoping to meet someone
as magical as them.
Every soul that catches your eye,
you won’t really be looking at them.
You’ll be searching for them.
You’ll never find them again.