I Need To Stop Writing About You As If You Were Already Dead

I miss you.

They dug up the parking lot
where you used to park your car.
I blew a kiss
to the door
that I watched you walk out of
for the last time.
Your memory
still lingers in that building.
Your laughter
reverberates off those walls.
I can still see the image of you dancing
down those no-longer-familiar halls.

I swear,
I can feel you everywhere.
There are traces of you
in every mention-worthy memory of my childhood,
and in every corner
of this God-forsaken town.
I’ve made a bad habit
of sipping on nostalgia
and using vodka
to chase it down.

You ruined an entire language,
and still,
through you,
I have found so many words.
Does anyone ask you about me anymore?
God, I hope so
and every time that they mention my name,
I hope it hurts.

I hope
you see me in your dreams sometimes.
After all,
you’ve made a habit
of haunting mine.
You are starting to feel like a ghost.
Did you ever actually exist,
or were you just
an illusion
of something that once felt like home?
Were you
a delusional daydream
that I created
to pass the time?
Was it all in my head?
All these answers
I know I’ll never find.

Yet,
I keep searching for them
in ink
and flames,
and altars
I’ve made out of other peoples’ beds.
I’m slowly learning
that there was nothing holy
in the way
that he would hold me.
Those sheets weren’t sacred,
and
I’m so sorry
for all of the things
I never said.
All I know is
there is a part of me
that will always love you,
but I’m still praying
that someday
I’ll meet someone
who will help me forget.

In the meantime,
I really need to stop writing about you
as if you were already dead.

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