It's all become flaccid memories.
You look so nonplussed. Sitting there.
I bet we're not thinking of the same thing.
That night, that time.
I'm thinking about you.
Can you tell?
Does my face show it?
The way my eyes bend the light that
cast shadows underneath your brow,
making you look mysterious.
Great, now I'm embarrassed.
All I held close.
Bet you didn't even know.
Or care?
Is this our way of . . . well.
Unsharing?
First, let me binge on all of the things I love about you:
I love the way you smell. And your strong hands.
Your smile, your laugh. Your charisma, your warmth.
Etc, etc. (I could go on, but for my own good, I should stop.)
Now, let me purge myself of these things.
Yes, I'm puking out your good.
I'm vomiting love.
Hold my hair back, will you?
I can taste it, coming back up.
Hurts. Much easier going down. Figures.
There it is, in a messy pile on the floor.
The stench burning my nose,
making my eyes water, wafting into
other rooms.
Everyone, sniff. Smell that?
Acidic, putrid.
Regurgitated love.
No one wants that **** anymore.
Does that repulse nonplussed you?
Go ahead, get on your ******* hands and knees.
Lap it back up.
Just try.