I can’t be mad at you, even if you wronged me… “they” all say you did.  My friends call you a dick.  I didn’t even make them say that, just given the facts, I guess… you are one.


But, like I said, I’m not mad.  I’m not even particularly sad, how could I say I am, when I think of you and the times we had, I smile.  


I hold the memories… the memories… like petals in the wind.  I pick them off and throw them to a lazy breeze that wraps them around me.  I smile.

I remember everything.  Usually when I’m laying next to some new boy.  

I hold some other hand and I remember the first time you winked at me.  

I make eye contact with a stranger and remember the color of yours… brown.

Even when they make me laugh, I think of your jokes.

Their hair… becomes yours in my head

Their lips…

Their words

I guess in that way, you are still with me.  Everyone I have is really just the flower that I pick petals off, memories of you.


Remember when you drove me home and I kept “accidentally” giving you the wrong direction?  And when you finally dropped me off, whispering, “come here” and kissing me for the first time?


The last boy I kissed, only a few nights ago, said, “come here”, before we kissed.  It made me so happy.  It became even easier to imagine his lips were yours… like I always do.


I date vessels.  Vessels for you.  Luckily, for me, most people fuck with their eyes closed.


In that way, we are still together… or, you are still with me.

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