Jul 12, 2017
I wonder if I even left a mark on you. I’d like to think I was a wild flame you burnt your hands on; the red scar tissue you pick at when you feel alone. I’d like to think I am a distant dream that still calls to you in your sleep; an image you see down the hall in the middle of the night. I’d like to think you still smell me on your old clothes - linger in the ache of it. That’s the thing about the loves I never managed get out of my teeth; years later and I still find you in the loneliest of places. If you read my poetry still I hope you know how none of my words have ever managed to wash you out of their mouth. How even when I’m not writing about you, I am still writing about you.
