Four Years Later

Four years later,
your name still plays in my head
like an epilogue
I never had the chance to read.

Four years later,
I still tell my friends,
“He was the best I ever had”
and the truth rolls from my tongue;
it tastes like you.

Four years later,
and I still can’t eat sushi
or listen to Bruno Mars
or drive by certain bridges
without remembering the way you kissed me
the first time you told me you loved me
and meant it.

Four years later,
and I still see your face
etched in each October Sunday
because that was when we met
and by Thanksgiving, I was spellbound;
by Halloween, I didn’t want to bother dressing up
because I was finally
exactly
who I wanted to be.

Four years later,
and it still hurts when I hear mutual friends
say your name paired with hers
as if the two of you are linked together
the way we were once
as we got lost in haunted houses
and winter wonderlands.

Four years later,
and every Valentines Day I think of that day,
February second,
when you kissed my cheek
and said, “Goodbye”
instead of,
“See you later.”

Four years later,
and I still remember Arabic phrases you taught me,
occasionally whisper them to myself
in my moments of weakness.

Four years later,
and I’ve yet to find another soul
who tries to kiss me as much as possible each night
the way you did
every night,
trying to beat every record
we had just set.

Four years later,
and no, I don’t still love you,
but yes, I do still miss you.

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