Tonight, the bartender asked me “what’s your poison?”, and I wanted to respond with your name. But the truth is, they have yet to learn how to bottle love, how to create a drug that’s potent enough to mimic the intoxicating addiction of another person’s heart, beating in time with yours.
So I will settle for a bottle of tequila for now, and a hangover strong enough to help me forget selected memories, even if only for a night.
There is nothing romantic about a love that used to be, a love that happened, and then ended, just like everything else in the world. People often romanticize tragedy, like the kiss that almost was, the “maybe” that could have been but will remain a “what if” forever. There is nothing beautiful about something that once was, but died. Ended. Failed.
I don’t know how much
longer I can sleep in a bed
where the left side is cold.
But every night, I follow you down
the path to my dreams, where my
heart feels whole once more.
And as time pulls me back
to the morning light,
I watch these old wounds
bleed all over again.
If tears were balms,
I would’ve healed by now,
and I could finally give you a name.
I would call you my downfall,
my regret, my love.
Remember the last time we were together?
I didn’t want to take any pictures
of us because I didn’t want to have
anything to remember you by. It’s not
like it matters. I wouldn’t have a
reason to show it to anyone except to say –
this is what my heartbreak looks like.
In my mind, I like to think of him
as “lost,” because his body is not in
my bed. I know, I know, it doesn’t
work that way. The memories
of him don’t fade in the way
consolations like to tell us –
“he is always there, in your heart.”
Because good god, it is a burden
to know that he lingers, when
I would rather lose my body too,
if it meant it did not ache for him.
They say it takes 21 days
to break a bad habit, yet
here I am, on day 202, my
mind and my heart are still
convinced that I need you.
202 days since I told you to
stay away from me, and I’ve
regretted it every single day.
202 accounts of whiplash,
of missing you like oxygen.
202 days of wishing I’ve never
had you. Then I wouldn’t be
reminded of you every time
I touch someone else.
I have made a sport out of confusing
the chronology of discovering you,
forgiving you, anticipating you,
and forgetting you. I have to accept
the fact that it’s over, and it’s time to
stop dragging your shadow like a
carcass around my shoulders,
thinking you’re still with me,
when you’re just a living memory,
still attached, umbilical.