do you miss him or do you just miss someone he asks you standing in the horrible light of the kitchen

you pause for longer than should be necessary

(there is nothing shameful in admitting that it is both)

yet still you hold to old lessons, reciting, dragging your finger across the page,

like prayer beads these things that are so impossible to unlearn, that we teach ourselves

I cannot change, I cannot want another, I want to go back, I must always be available

Treating others as you would want to be treated, but never will be

(a consolation prize of perfectionism, of womanhood)

never able to exist in a moment always tumbling down the hill of future fantasy

following things to their (il)logical conclusions in the imagined reality of your mind

one of the scariest things

(excessive time alone with one's thoughts)

I was thinking maybe you wanted to be more independent she says face pixelated by the connection

but I didn't want you to think that I wasn't here for you if you needed me

you smile tight lipped but not taut

forgiveness given with the time with the missing with the familiarity of exchanging words

yet still something kept hidden a pebble at the heart round and smooth and produced by your own body

she sees it but lets you hold it

perhaps this is wisdom perhaps this is fear perhaps this just is

(I know you've thought about it he says to you you think about everything)

You fall asleep with his shirt pressed against your bare chest and though he must recognize it he says nothing

Remembering tiny details like the paintings you made, moments that plead to be remembered:

the curve of his wrist, the arc of his back, he is simple and flawed and you do not love him

but god is it not wonderful to try?