I laid in bed awake until 6:30, where I watched the sun rise through my gossamer curtains.

I traced the pattern of a heart on my bright yellow bedspread.

And most importantly:

I tried not to think about you.




My mind drifts from random subjects to important memories every passing millisecond, until finally, inevitably, it lands on you.


The word is poetry that this world is not grand enough to write.

My startling saffron sweater is draped over my reading chair, and I wish that all the atoms that composed would just disappear. Take the piece of cloth that holds some many memories stitched into the very core of it, from the bright yarn to the mismatched buttons.

My black and light blue striped socks are thrown somewhere. Anywhere.

I couldn’t stand to wear them, it was like the very wool they had been knitted with was reacting to the news just as my heart was breaking.

My hands are dead pale and lifeless objects attached to my arms. They are folded gracelessly in my lap like all the muscles died. I could move them. But then I would be bombarded with the memories. Your own pale hands. How they held mine. How it felt, your rough palm cradling mine.

I can’t smile. The muscles in my face and jaw have been frozen in the moment. The moment of extreme and horrible shock. I can’t even manage your quirky little half smile you would pull off even on your worst days.




Why? Why did you say what you did? I hate myself for loving you, because you never did me.


And the sad thing is,

Is that to me,

The word you,

Is still the most beautiful poetry I have ever read.


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