The Last Good Thing I'll Ever Write About You

A tune carries on the light breeze
from the park down the way
and it’s you,
so familiar,
so warm,
like the burns your
name leaves
on my ribcage.
I obsessively look at the
small collection of photos
we have,
trying (not at all)
to banish you from
my memory,
but it does the opposite
and I always end up

We made promises that
I was foolish enough to hope for.
Maybe this was your game all along.
To build build build
and then take a wrecking ball
to my insides,
making it feel like a (not so civil)
war rages on beneath my aching skin.

My closed lids are permanently burned
with the haunting image of
your eyes as you took
your final look at me.

Ice water runs through my veins
when I look at her
(I wrote false statements here
but then I erased them).

Life’s luster still hasn’t returned.
That old friend that I used to drag across my skin
just remembered my phone number
and he won’t stop calling.
Maybe I’ll pick up the phone
and ache again.

One day I’ll stop writing
poems about you.

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