I had a dream about you last night.
Your hands around me, keeping me warm.
Your lips finding mine, forgiveness something I must have unknowingly given.
And then you had to leave as quickly as you came.
That truck I knew so well, sitting in my driveway, waiting for us to consummate this renewal of a ‘relationship.’
“I’ll call you.” Those being your parting words. 

If I’m being honest with myself, it’s not you I miss.
No, that’s a lie. It is you, partially. 

I miss not being alone.

Were there others?
Or was I the only one dumb enough to let the earth disappear beneath my feet-
Before thinking things through?
Did it feel good, lying about the life and death of those who cared most about you?
To use them as human shields to the person I now realize I knew nothing about?
Did you ever stop and think about how your dishonesty made me feel safe, while others sat worrying?
What was it like to lie in your shared bed with her-
After spending those few precious hours with me?
Did you compare/contrast? [Replay every sordid detail like a twisted fantasy.]
Could she smell me on the crevices of your skin?
My breath entwined with your sweat?

There is a place for you, in the fiery hell that I don’t believe in.
To see you get sent there? I’d make an exception in said belief.

There are just some days that I miss you far too much for words.
The days where I want to call you, my finger hovering over the send button in anticipation.

But I remember that I was the one who ended it, that I need it to be ended.
Even if I still can almost feel your arms around me, your scent washing over me.

This is for the better. I think. 

She saw him today.
The ghost of his face, etched onto another.
“It’s not him. It’s not him. It’s not him.”
Her breath found itself caught in her throat. She could hear her pulse pounding in her eardrums.
“It’s not him. Calm down.”
Their eyes met for a brief second, the similarities dissipated.  
Shaky breath after shaky breath, she watched him leave with another wrapped around his arm.

She knows that he’s not around anymore, but the prospect of seeing him again scares her more than anything else. 

His socks start appearing at the end of your bed, as if they’re a collection. You don’t want to move them, but they’re used and your room is starting to smell like dirty laundry. “I don’t mind,” he says, as he slips yet another pair off. “It gives your room character.” He says, dropping the worn socks on top of the others. You don’t know whether to smile or grimace, and it seems that your face is caught between the two. He’ll laugh in response, pulling you onto the bed along with him, curling himself around you as if he’d always been there.

His shirts seem to be making a home on your desk. You want to move them, but they almost look like they’re comfortable there. He, of course, was the one who pointed out the asinine observation as you went to go and grab the topmost one. You want to protest that they’re dirty, like the collection of socks that rest at the end of your bed. You want to go on and on about how your room now smells like dirty laundry and not the scented candles you just bought. But he’ll smile that charming smile, as if not listening to a word you’re saying. He’ll pull you on the bed and curl himself around you like always.

His pants have found themselves strewn across your floor, making patterns with the carpet. You’re tempted to throw your hands up into the air with surrender, because you know that he’ll make some silly comment about how they belong there. As you open your mouth to do so, he’ll take your mouth with his, entangling himself around you. The words will be lost in the kisses. Instead of pulling onto the bed, you’ll gently push him, burying yourself into every bit of him. Breathing each other in, the dirty laundry is the last thing on your mind as his legs weave around yours, and your mouths collide in harmony.

She rested her head gently on his shoulder, breathing in the scent that was him. He wrapped his arms around her, the warmth from his body radiating over her chilled skin. They lay their in silence, drinking in each other. Her fingers danced up his rib cage gently. A small smile crossed his features; the stubble on his chin brushing up softly against her scalp. Cheesy, predictable sayings flowed through her mind as her fingers continued to dance. She bit her bottom lip, hoping that one of them wouldn’t suddenly fall out.

He shifted slightly, her comfortable spot lost for a moment. As she was trying to find it again, the phone rang, disturbing the silence that had fallen over them.

“You should get that.”
“Probably.”
“Are you going to?”

He sighed. Slipping out of the bed, he padded across the room, his hand reaching for the ringing phone. She wanted him to forget the phone, to come back to bed.

The phone rang again. She opened her eyes slowly, listening to the ring tone. So different from the one from only a few months ago. The cool air wrapped itself around her, and she shivered. The arms that had been wrapped around her were gone with the phone call he’d gotten out of bed for. The phone rang again, trying to yank her from the memory she was lost in. She let her head fall back onto his pillow, his scent once again falling over her.

“Who was that?”
“Oh. One of my coworkers.”
“This late at night?”
“Don’t worry about it. Let’s just go back to cuddling.”

The morning light found her with her arms wrapped tightly around her pillow, her chin brushing softly against the pillow case.

It was summer when they met. The sweat beads that fell from her forehead matched the ones that fell from his. Their hands had found each other as fast as it took the drops to slide away. Fingers stitched together, words mingling without a pause for breath. She liked jazz, he liked blues. As the day grew old and grey, the touches grew more frequently. A hug in a crowded movie theater, an arm around the shoulder and waist while hailing a cab, a hand resting softly on a jean clad thigh. And the kisses. Oh the kisses. They began so slowly, only to escalate so quickly. Hands found a door, as bodies met their match with a bed. Clothes forgotten on chairs and rugs as flesh connected. Moans and hisses. The sound of flesh connecting with flesh, lips greeting each other with passion, licking, sucking, and playful slapping. Gasps ripped through the curtain of steam as tension ebbed away. Fingers. Oh the fingers. Clawing, grabbing, entangling in hair and flesh. Nails digging when the grabbing just didn’t seem to be enough. The marks they left on each other would last so much longer than the mess they made. 

It was fall when they parted. Cold seeping past the fragile layer of skin, coloring them red as the leaves that were falling. Their eyes marred with the unshed tears. “How could you do this?” Why. Why. Why. Their unspoken words screamed as fingers parted, hands retreated back to their own person. She became she, and he became he, no longer the force they had been together. She would find herself watching his retreating figure. He would find himself wanting to look back, wondering if she were watching. They would entertain themselves with the memory of the first night. The air heavy with their aroma. The sounds threatening to spill into the neighbor’s ear. They way they seemed to fit perfectly in each other’s arms, covered in the sweat they had met each other in.

She misses the smell of gasoline burning in the dead of the night.
The sound of the door closing as the seat next to her sinks down.
Fingerprints on the window as she looks past him litter her memory.
Her heart yearns for his voice. The way he almost seems to care.

She knows that things are supposed to be better, now that she’s ignoring his texts.
It’s just that she can’t help but feel bad about not telling the truth.
Easier, perhaps, to leave him in the cold, like he’s done so to her.
Maybe he’ll catch the hint. Maybe she’ll stop regretting how things began/ended.

If only, just for one more night, she could join her lips with his, not caring how things turn out.

 

It’s the way he laughs when you play through your collection of sad songs on the days that are reserved for thunderstorms and rain clouds. You try to ignore him, encasing yourself in the melodies and harmonies of someone else’s life, but you can’t help but feel a smile inch across your features.
“Cliché!” He’ll yelp as you throw a pillow at him for trying to snap you out of the terrible funk you had thrown yourself vigorously into. “You’re a damn cliché. You should be ashamed!”
It’s the way his words curl around his laugh that leaves you wondering if he could ever believe anything he lets fly past his lips. You’ll turn away from him, pretending to be angry, as he reaches for the pillow that missed him. You’ll ignore him as he tosses it up into the air, not catching when it comically lands on his face.
“Come on.” He’ll say, his tone as soft as the hand he now holds out to you. “Turn off the sad music. The world could use more laughs.”
But you won’t want to, and he’ll come to realize that with time. You’ll comply for now, however, just so he’ll keep that smile. That laugh. But your mind is on the notes of the last played song, the chords of the next one already starting to play in your head.

It’ll be the way he’ll leave you standing there, waiting for an answer. Something. Anything. But it’ll never come. You’ll find yourself pleading with him, wondering where that omnipresent laugh went, knowing he believed in all those words he’d so jokingly said. It’ll sting. It’ll feel just like…
“Cliché!” You’ll find yourself screaming, all the sad songs rushing back and gutting you as they slam into the empty space that surrounds. “You’re a damn cliché!”
And maybe he’ll remember that those were the same words that he’d said to you, the context laughably different. He’ll look at you blankly, though, trying to somehow compensate for the whole thing with his eyes.
It’ll be the way the silence finds you when he’s far, far, far away from where you both began. Your sad songs will never be loud enough, the thunderstorms never long enough, the storm clouds never big enough. You’ll find yourself hugging the pillow he loved so much, only to realize it is that one once you’ve thrown it across the room to make noise.

It’s the way you’ve fallen for him, not knowing what’s to come, not knowing he’ll leave you with only yourself to cling to. You’re not caring because he’s here now, leading you away from your funk, the one you so grudgingly allowed yourself to leave.

She called you last night, crying.
You could feel your own heart shatter as each sob escaped her lips.
“Talk to me about anything. Just get my mind off of it.”
The only thing that came to mind was that stupid book you just read.
Each moment felt as though it weighed like an hour.
Her voice was tinged with the congestion of her anguish.

If you could have, you would have walked barefoot to her house in the dark, and just held her as she cried.