fingertips and freckles and frosty smiles.
how you would whisper your secrets even though it was just you and I.
do you whisper to yourself now?
or do you whisper to somebody else?

the patterns you’d trace on my spine,
fingers walking marathons.
you always could make me breathless.
the way you looped your ‘l’s and your run-on sentences that always made me giggle.

your pout and your warm breath and your insecurities.
you paid more attention to them than me.
you were an artist but I was not your muse.
life was and I guess I was just a background painting.

I think of you sometimes.
when I taste kiwi or when that song comes on that you liked but I never remembered the name to.
or when it’s windy and raining and I don’t have your coat to shield me.

I hope you’re happy and that one day, I can be too.

Time of death:
3:44.
When you told me you don't love me anymore.
Place of death:
The park where we met,
on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
I remember the dreaded words which escaped your lips,
the heat in your words,
the look on your face,
as I took a metaphorical bullet to the chest;
it hurt like Hell.
Cause of death:
You.
When you stabbed me in the heart for the first
and last time.
A fatal blow.
But in the coroner's office,
all the report will ever show is:
time of death:
3:44.
Cause of death:
Trauma to the chest.