I've been thinking a lot about
cherry coated kisses, and
the sunlight in the evening.
I've been dreaming about
the scar on your eyebrow,
how I'd always brush my fingertips across it.
I won't step into parks without nostalgia's
fleeting ghost, and
I can't taste a lovers lips
without your impulse running in.
I guess I could forget even the smallest
parts of you, but
my body knows your ghost and
just can't seem to let it go,
or how I pulled you in so feverishly
and slammed my lips to swap the spit
with yours and,
you smiled like a little boy.

Because regardless if you ever loved me
we both know you still feel my mouth
on the very edges of your skin,
and is it not news that she can ******* name
on the pieces of your exposed flesh
you haphazardly place so heavily beneath her.
I am burned so inescapably apparent
like silver scars that beg for invisibility.
I have kissed you deep with these malicious lips,
and left your blood tinged with toxic venoms
that you are so desperate to water-down,
to erase, to pretend as if they never seared
the guarded walls of your insecurity;
but don't let me brandish my own wounds
as though they somehow belong to you.
And I might not have ever meant I loved you,
but I can still feel the exact moment
it could have possibly been conceived
and the way the currents kept back
the aching light of truth that lay so calmly over
you and I, you and I,
you and I were never meant to be;
we just happened.

I see the structure
of all these lonely buildings.
Are they empty too?

I loved a boy with a rather small heart,
sometimes he'd let me in and I'd roam through,
running my fingers along the scratches the walls held
and cautiously stepping over the loose floorboards.
He told me love once lived
in this dark and brooding place.
He told me he'd have married her,
but she damaged all the rooms,
so he forced the doors shut.
I loved a boy who put off cold distance
and placed a "keep out" sign on his front door.
Sometimes he'd let me in
to paint the grey walls vibrantly,
or put down new flooring;
to replace the glass windows she'd shattered,
and open the curtains.
He told me love once thrived there
and that every day the sun would shine through.
"It was Love." he would say,
who kept him warm in the winter,
but she dismembered the foundation,
and flooded the basement,
so he locked himself away.
I loved a boy who couldn't love me back.
Sometimes he'd let me in
to fill the cracks in the molding,
or plant flowers in the garden.
Sometimes he let me start a fire in the fireplace,
and turn the bed over.
He told me love once belonged there,
and that my renovating was comforting,
but futile nonetheless.
The old creaky staircase
would never forget the imprints of her feet
and the gates in the yard
were not strong enough to keep her out.
I loved a boy once who chose to remain haunted
despite every attempt I made
to set his soul free.
I loved a boy once who couldn't let go of a ghost.