I exist in his lower lip,
and upper teeth.

I exist in the way he used to say my name,
twisted and voluptuous.

I exist in the shade of his black curtains,
the last breathe of his cigarette,
and the slow sip of his drink.

I exist in the backseat of his car,
3 a.m sharp on his wrist watch,
and every knock on my bedroom door.

I exist in the sake of our past,
in every attempt of forgetting him without losing myself,
but I do not exist in his memory.