You call me a year after our break up to say, for you, it never stopped.
The wanting. The aching. The need for my mouth near yours.
365 days of waiting for it to cease, but you still find me. You still find me when you’re not even looking.
I don’t say anything back. I don’t know if I’m too proud or scared, or I’ve just forgotten how to speak. I can feel my tongue in the back of my throat trying to work. My vocal cords are looking for a manual, an instruction sheet on how to respond.
There’s a sparrow inside my chest and she’s flapping her wings against my ribcage. She’s trying to break free, trying to tell you she never stopped waiting to hear your song. She never stopped looking either.
When we first fell apart, we promised to never stay too far away. We would exist in each other in unbreakable ways. You were the thumbprint on my heart I could never scrub away. I was the tattoo on your wrist that refused to fade.
And now you’re telling me it’s true. You see me in tiny moments. In grand ones. You say you saw me in a display window at Target, at the gas station, in the sunrise overlooking the canyons. I’m everywhere. You close your eyes and somehow I find a way in.
How can I begin to say? I see you in all those places too. All these years, and I still only see you.