I started writing about you in the summer,
when the sun was too bright
and my hands were always sweaty.
My skin burned so hot, I'm still trying to
figure out how your fingers didn't melt
right off of me. It's winter now,
I can see my breath when I go outside
and my toes are cold enough that
I can no longer feel them.
The weather has changed and you're no
longer here. Not physically, at least.
You still somehow find your way into my
head and maybe the words I keep writing
aren't really helping me get rid of you.