It’s quite a task, isn’t it?
To push away the memory of her hands
weaving through your hair, tracing the
line that lead to the nape of your neck,
to suppress a shiver at the distant whisper of
such (undeserved) tenderness.

Why couldn’t you just watch your step,
you wonder,
let sleeping dogs lie.
Nevermind that when you laid down beside her
you woke up with
fleas.

Flee.
No, because you were never strong enough.
What is it that you wanted, you wonder,
and what was it that you got?
Her eyes still stun you, despite the distance.
Was that feeling butterflies, or nausea?

Or was it...love?

What a word, “love.”
And if you loved her,
(my, doubt is such a fickle thing),
is it true that the only return you’d ever see
was her brand of
suffocating intimacy?

Oh, but you craved it, didn’t you?
You spoke your wish out loud
and half-hoped it wouldn’t come true.
You miss the way she held you,
but God,
it hurt so dearly sometimes.

Such desperate selfishness, you realize,
to tell her that you loved her.
Her touch still lingers,
tucked away deep under your skin,
and you can never decide:
reach for it, or push it away?

I wasn’t an ending,
and it wasn’t a goodbye.
Maybe that’s why you still see her smile
in every sunrise,
see her scowl
in every star.

You wonder if you could have kept her.
You wonder, then, if you would have.
You feel her hands in your hair
and her breath on your face,
lay there half-alone and half-asleep,
murmuring your questions to an empty room.