Sometimes, I Think Of You

Denys Argyriou

I think of you.

When the mist from my
Condensing cup of tea
Rises and meets my spectacles,
And blurs my vision –
I think about your hands
Covering my eyes.

Counting to ten.
To twenty. To thirty.

Waiting for it to be over.

I think of you.

When I sit with a pen in hand,
And all I can do
Is scribble angrily.
Making deep indentations –
For they say more
Than words ever could.

Deeper. Harder.
Till the pen leaks.

Waiting for it to break.

I think of you.

When the lukewarm water
Suddenly becomes hotter,
And my bare back
Is left scalding, smarting –
And it’s just a little too late
To stop that feeling.

Burning. Endlessly.
Like fingernails clawing at me.

Waiting for retraction.

I think of you.

In a dimly lit room –
With shadows on the walls,
Stains on the bed,
Stains on my hand.
The hands that pushed you away,
The hands that still smell of you.

Incessant. Ablution.
Your odor still lingers.

Waiting for it to dissipate.

I think of you.

I try not to,
But memories are cruel.
They surface, resurface.
And I destroy my body,
Trying to keep them at bay.
For I could not do so with you,
And was wrecked just the same.

Mercilessly. Unabashedly.
It haunts me every single day.

I wait for the day it will stop. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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