Looking At You Still Hurts


I always think it won’t.
I have been with other men,
and I can only assume you have been with other women.
Our lives are not parallel stories anymore.
We are different books and I have no idea what chapter you are on.
It’s getting harder to remember how you smelled
or how we tasted.
Time is erasing your fingertips and I don’t know if I like it.
I text you and my heart flips out when I see the typing bubble.
It’s stupid, I know.
My best friend would tell me it’s a mistake.
It is,
I know.
But you were the first thing that made sense in a long time.
You were a vision I had posted above my bed that I never figured could come true.
You were laughing until 4 am and feeling like this is how it’s supposed to be.
Like it was a best friend
and someone to love,
I had waited so long.
But we never loved all the way.
We were always half of something and I know that would never be enough for me.
Or you.
But baby,
I have written a whole book of poetry about your face
and I could write so many more.
I wonder if this makes me weak
or sad
or pathetic
or just a girl who fell so despairingly in love.

Looking at you still hurts.
I checked your Facebook tonight to see if it was true.
And those dimples still feel like emergency room wounds.
I hope someone will see me.
I hope someone will check for internal bleeding.
Because I’m afraid looking at you will my own undoing.