A fly lazily perched on my computer,
it brushed its legs against each other.
Like you used to.

I stared at its black eyes,
dark like your gaze when you gripped me by hand
and pulled me away into your bedroom.

I remember how dark the world seemed
when I shut my eyes,
counting every second.
Hoping that it’d make it fade,
make it stop,
make it less real.

But the fly’s legs were thin, fragile, small,
tiny the same way I felt powerless
when you were around.

And then the fly flew away.
It swept through the window, free.
Oblivious to my catching breath,
while I hyperventilated
trapped between the memories
of what you have already forgotten.