It’s Been One Month (And I Still Dream Of You)

Sometimes,
I look at the battle scars
that paint my body
and resemble the profile
of your chin
and I want to open them up,
pour yourself over me
and remember things
I know I shouldn’t.
Like the way you made her tea
on the stove we shared
with my goddamn kettle
or the way you kissed my forehead
and my lips
burned.
I want to open myself up
and recall how you shook my father’s hand
and it looked like you were promising him
you’d never break me.
I want to close my eyes
and have the blood of the memories of you
wash over me in tidal waves
of regret,
envy,
remorse,
loss.
I want to open the scar you left
on my heart,
the one shaped like
the look on your face when you whispered her name to me,
and I want to remember
how I cried over you –
how I still am crying over you –
and I want to convince myself
not to dream of your face
any longer.
I want to open these wounds up
to remember why I should forget,
but I know that in opening myself up
I won’t be able to heal myself
shut.

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