tracing your face in the remains of your scent
gathered on the pillow where you placed your head
the memories never seem to live up to the event
and the retellings are too brief
to do anything but be
an escape from the mundane
the lack thereof of your frame
garnered in blankets
overflowing with flames
wandering through work shifts
and suppressing the dissent
that wells up from within
when someone is stuck without
there’s no touch
no shared breath
no affection
and no rest
just empty sleep
to try and be
close to ok through the days
sometimes it’s better
to try and forget her
and sometimes
it just doesn’t work
sometimes
it just fucking hurts.
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