they say our sense of smell
is by far the most powerful
in revoking tucked away memories
and I'm not quite sure who they are
or who gave them the right
to unveil these monstrous moments
stored away in my head

but I remember
your bed smelled like cigarettes
you said you didn't smoke in the house

maybe that was true

but the last time you told me
you loved me
was on a piece of loose leaf paper
taped to my television set
three years ago
and I bet they were up there
placing bets on when I would drive you back
to the point of madness that
my mother had once put you in

three years later
have felt like a nicotine free eternity
of their own

but you're back

back planting cigarette butts
in ***** flower pots
filling your lungs with cancer and your
blood with toxins that I can only imagine
are named after me

and everything we used to be

maybe it was when I saw my room for the first time in six months
bare walls
no bed
empty closet
almost as if
I had never slept there at all

or when I never got the invite
to Thanksgiving
because you already knew
that I wouldn't bother to show up
when I realized

that your life
her life
their lives

had all gone on without me
from the outside looking in
your glass castle had never known
I ever existed
I didn't anymore
my room was not my room
the tomb I spent my nights in
does not even begin
to remember me

luckily
I'm half way okay with this

because as much as I would love
to write about how
when push came to shove
I know
that I did this

to myself

but what is a broken home
when you've never known anything else?
anything beside empty chairs
and closed doors
floors that dont tell you
who's walking by the creaks
I dont recall how old I was
when I stopped peeking in your bedroom
every morning
to come crawl into bed with you
it seems so strange to me now
because we cant even seem to look
each other in the eye
and every goodbye is either prior to
or followed by
a sigh
I'm not quite sure when it started
and I don't know
that it can ever be stopped
we fought about simple things,
dinner and movies and
who'd pick up when the telephone rings
the arguments are silent now
nestled between closing doors
and awkward hello's
because we both know
I can never say for sure
when the door
will open again

loving you
was like having heart burn
on the wrong side of my chest
and doing my best to pretend
that still I felt nothing
in all of the places where
you once touched me

neck
collarbone
the backside of my knees

you destroyed me from the inside out
with such delicacy
that at times
I convinced myself it wasn't even
happening

loving you was a disease
that I wish
I could remember having

but now
I simply
feel
nothing

tomorrow was never promised. I know that, I guess I always knew that. one day too many yesterday's ago you told me that eventually, one day, we'd be waking up to each other in a bed two sizes too big for only two people but that was okay because your voice always had a way of filling every empty space, the void in the air or the empty between our sheets. a bed two sizes too big can quickly become two sizes too small when all you want to do is fall into a set of arms that are no longer laying there. too many yesterdays ago we spoke of tomorrows and forevers, of sunday mornings and tuesday brunch and kitchen counters and coffee tables. we spent days staring at globes picking out all the places where we knew we'd never go, and I couldn't breathe when you finally decided to pack your bags and leave.
part of me hoped you'd come back.
part of me still does.

I'm damaged goods.
the mail-in rebate you'll never quite get around to sending.
rather you neatly sit it atop your chestnut coffee table, politely acknowledge it's existence, and try to remember to buy postage stamps for an envelope you believe you will mail.
you won't.
you will ignore it.
just as you have ignored me.
legs crossed, sitting atop the coffee table we never bothered to buy, scraped knees and insecurities that you have tried your best to deny.
the mail in rebate will one day expire.
I pray that I will not.

7:22
and I'm thinking of you
and all the things I would do
to
forget