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
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.