Three years later, I still take your name in bed.
I don't think he minds.
He has ghosts of his own.
I've had this recurring nightmare since you left. I'm choking on glass and something is burning but cyan is all I can see.
You told me the easiest mistake is to mistake wanting with needing.
He's saying he doesn't understand what I want.
I'm finding pieces of you in his eyes.
There's a cigarette between my fingers, and there's smoke between my teeth.
You left such a gaping hole in my chest and now I'm filling it with anything and anyone.
I think he learned not to ask questions the last time I breathed your name then cried for days.
You said it is often the one who leaves that is being left.
He says I've got to learn to let go.
I'm still learning.
I'm still leaving.
I don't know when I will.