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I tell my friends you haven’t crossed my mind in months but last week I spent all the cash in my wallet on cinnamon candles that smell like your pillow cases and my fingers shake every time I strike the match.
They ask me if we’ve spoken and I get sick to my stomach when my truthful answer is exactly what they want to hear.
My mother doesn’t ask about you because she thinks I’ve transferred my affections to the boy with gentle eyes that picks me up late at night.
She doesn’t realize she’s passed to me the trait she hates most about herself.
In her naivety, she honestly believes I can commit myself to any particle of being that doesn’t belong to you.
He doesn’t open my car door or know the syllables of my middle name, but my soul does not catch on fire when I am with him, and for this reason I find no sorrow in his indifference.
I only find comfort in pretending that it is you pinning my legs back towards ruffled fabric that fills my lungs with cinnamon instead someones who’s finger tips my flesh does not recognize.My sister knows my heart is heavy as lead because last week we shared tequila on the balcony and I traced your name onto the flesh of my thigh.
She held my hands and told me that there are far too many beautiful words in my troubled mind to let your name be the only one that escapes.
I read her face easily because it closely resembles my own and my heart broke when I noticed the clenching of her jaw.
Illuminated by old Christmas lights I set the bottle down and admitted it’s been months since I’ve written a single word that didn’t burn.
Strange, I thought, how you can be living your dreams and your nightmares at the very same time.
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