no one tells you
that even after the ending,
you still flinch when someone says
his name
or wears his deodorant
or exists
in the same shape.

i told my friends i’m over it.
and they said
we know you’re not
and i said
but i’m trying.
and they said
no, you’re writing
which is not the same thing.

he said
i’m not ready for something real.
and i said
okay
like it wasn’t
the most offensive thing
anyone has ever said to me.

i’m not mad anymore.
just
liminal.

just
inventorying
the damage
like a girl who survived
the softest
apocalypse.

i keep hoping
someone will touch my face
and say
there you are.
like i’ve been missing.

like
i’m not still
missing
myself.