It has been one year
to the day
since I spoke to you last.
I do not miss you -
that is not what this is about.
It's just that sometimes
I feel phantom fingers in my hair.
Sometimes old photographs choke me up.
And remembering the good times hurts more
than remembering the bad.
I'm not sure if you would recognize
the way I wear my skin nowadays.
My hair is a different color,
and about a foot longer.
It has been one year,
365 days,
several startling discoveries,
a few tear stained nights,
half a dozen new beginnings,
and at least one bottle of whiskey.
But I still can't get
the taste of you
off my tongue.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
It has been one year
to the day
since I spoke to you last.
I do not miss you -
that is not what this is about.
It's just that sometimes
I feel phantom fingers in my hair.
Sometimes old photographs choke me up.
And remembering the good times hurts more
than remembering the bad.
I'm not sure if you would recognize
the way I wear my skin nowadays.
My hair is a different color,
and about a foot longer.
It has been one year,
365 days,
several startling discoveries,
a few tear stained nights,
half a dozen new beginnings,
and at least one bottle of whiskey.
But I still can't get
the taste of you
off my tongue.
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