She is green and blue like the mysterious bruises that have surfaced on my skin. She is diamonds and glitter everyone wants a glimpse of.
I pick up my phone.
My heart is racing, my hands have turned cold and my thumb hovered above her contact name on my phone screen, being extra careful not to click on it by accident but secretly hoping that I would. I place my phone under my pillow and shut my eyes again.
I think about the first time we talked on the phone, I don’t remember the date, I don’t remember any details, but I remember feeling comfortable. I remember feeling so comfortable that it was uncomfortable.
I think about how much I want to hear your voice and the laughter that has the ability to penetrate into the bleakest parts of my heart. I think about our inside jokes, the ones I try to recreate with other people but are never the same as the first time, knowing the truth is they won’t be the same because they aren’t you. I think about all the things I would tell you and what you would say. I remember that you wouldn’t really care anyway.
I pour myself two drinks and I pick up my phone again.
My heart is racing, this time I’m not sure if it’s from the alcohol. I scrolled to her contact name where I became hesitant and I quickly put my phone down because I know my self-restraint is lowered.
I pour myself two more drinks, concentrating on the way the color of the alcohol changes as the ice melts.
I think about what I want to say to you, I want to ask if you feel the same throbbing pain in your heart, I want to know if our songs still remind you of me. I remember hearing someone say that as time passes, the first thing you forget about a person is his or her voice. I want to tell you that I hadn’t forgotten, but I remember that you wouldn’t really care anyway and chuck this monologue aside.
I replay your voice notes on my phone and accept that I won’t hear your voice again. I listen to you say, “Goodnight, sweets” and wonder if you say it to someone else now.