3am and sometimes
i think the ceilings are split
from the weight of your
words, cold. last november.
but my lips
are cracked from the taste of
your
apologies, like wet ashes
on my tongue. tomorrow's cigarettes.
i pray to god
sometimes. i ask for one
more chance to remember how your smile looks like
on rainy yesterdays. brief thunderstorms.
i miss you.
your hands are sand
and i spend the entire time
trying to hold onto them but they slip
out, from the gaps between my fingers.
i feel as if i am chasing smoke.
i feel as if i am chasing you.
i am chasing you.
but i don't know where you've
gone, and not a single
navigating system in this world
could tell me where you are.
i break one.
i try to find another, but
the store says they're sold out.
outside, i find a pile of broken
ones by the trash can and lonely
silhouettes walking down the left side
of the crossroad.
because they know if they have to find someone,
they musn't go the right way.
3am and sometimes
i find myself brewing coffee
in the kitchen,
and i forget how many teaspoons of sugar
you'd always add to your cup.
so i don't touch the spoon.
3am and sometimes
i wish you taught
me how to forget you before
you left.
i brushed shoulders with you
the other day,
when the lights were green
and we were both crossing the road.
i don't
think you recognize me
anymore.