you make it seem so commonplace. so simple.

I don't know what to do with this
now that you're gone.
I want to take it out of me, and hand it to you and say, "please, just take it back. I don't want it anymore." I want to have my hands all bloodied in emotion and I want to wipe them on your shirt. I want to paint you with what you left behind in me. I want to spread my memories on your skin and let them choke your pores.
Starve your body of oxygen
so covered in my ex-bliss
so dissolved by aborted amour
drenched by confusion that still overwhelms me
and the feeling of the loss of you. I want to wrap you in it. I want to make it something tangible that you can hold, so I can send it to you with a note that says, "now you understand."
at night you can sleep beneath it and know everything you meant to me. you can dream the dreams I had when you still let yourself touch me. the dreams that, no matter what I do, I still cannot completely kill.
What will it take to get me over you?
Me seeing you with someone? It seems impossible. I was never seen with you myself.
What about someone liking me more than you did? What about me liking someone more than I liked you? What about time?
You apologized. I wonder if you're sorry for that too.
I think you did it for me, not for you. Because you remembered. I wanted an admission of fault from ex-otter. You gave me one for yourself. But what we neglected was the different situations.
I love you. I love him. I love everyone I have ever loved. Some part of me always will. Tiny shrapnel embedded in my heart. Each piece has a name scratched onto it.
I miss you so much. I even miss the stupid faces you made when we had sex. I miss them because it was the only time you showed true emotion. I loved you in bed because you were genuine. Or when you'd say you were "ti-ti." Or when you'd sing. Or when you'd absent-mindedly rub my head. But one of my favorites was when you tapped my nose and called me cutie.
These fucking memories.
I would pour them out of my head and lay them on your doorstep if that was an option. I want to give them all back to you because right now they only hurt me. Heated needles on my breastbone. A heavy fist atop my sternum.
And in time it all will fade
in time you won't matter
I tell myself these things to feel better
but somewhere, under the words, I taste a lie.

And when you see me again, what will you say?
"Hey."
And how the fuck would I respond?
"Hey."

and all my nonchalance would be a lie.