There was irony in the way we picked forget-me-nots
along the shoreline of a lake that held a thousand memories
in the weeks before I left
and the hours before you saw her.
And sometimes I wonder what you did
with the letters I wrote you and told you to open
whenever you missed me;
I imagine them unopened, under your bed
or in a landfill, taking up space the way I did in your life
and the way you did in my heart.
I still wake up some mornings
with your name tattooed on my tongue
and I reach out to my side,
but all I grab is cold sheets and ghosts
in the place your arm used to lie.
I still see your face in crowded rooms
and in lonely dreams,
and my poems that were once filled with your name
suddenly no longer rhyme.
But I think what scares me most is that over a year later,
I can’t remember the curve of your cheek
or the smell of your cologne;
I can’t remember the way you liked your coffee
or the weight of your palm on my shoulder;
I can’t remember the shade of brown in your eyes
or the roughness in your laugh.
But I remember the way you made me feel once upon a time,
both the good and the bad,
and it makes me wonder if it was worth it.