I still have all of your things,
and in my dreams,
my brain forgets that you're not really here.
I see you everywhere.
You're touching my face,
holding me gently.
I feel so at ease.
And then I wake up.
And I reread our last conversation,
the one where you told me about him.
Part of me hopes that your skin burns in all the places I've touched you and part of me hopes that you see my face when you close your eyes to kiss him.
But the other part of me is happy for you, the other part of me wishes I could stop feeling your hands on my waist and the other part of me wishes the image of your face wasn't burned into the back of my eyelids.