The Art Of Trying To Forget You

Jamie Street

I went on dates, I sat through compliment filled dinners about the superficial, my exterior. My almond shaped eyes and the bedroom effect they yielded when the flickering light of a candle danced in front of them. I subjected myself to subtle advances, lips hesitant to make their way to mine.

Unamused I compared each and every one of them to you. I looked for the hints of gold that captivated my soul and I yearned for the way my heart would race when your fingers would trace lines across my skin, connecting moles as if they were constellations in the night sky.

I laid in stranger’s beds with images of you lingering in my head. A myriad of emotions coursing through my veins, euphoria and the bittersweet sadness that your hands were not the ones exploring the uncharted scars which were both physically and emblematically scored along my body; on the outside and within me.

I refused to return kisses, because something so intimate will never and should never be shared with someone who didn’t burn me like the sun.

One by one I turned them down because they didn’t ignite the figurative spark the same way you did. They didn’t stimulate my brain, resulting in the rapid fire of neurons exchanging electrical currents overloaded with love and affection.

There was no magic

God knows I have tried to fall out of love with you, but my darling, that is something I just can’t seem to do. TC mark

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