It's like an open secret no one talks about.

Just don't treat me like I'm something that happened to you.

A poem


i want to memorise the lines of your smile
and curves of your shoulder, the left one,
how it holds my face and the
weight of regret.


i want to write onto paper the sound of your voice
telling me about your yesterday and
how it would be the last without
the mention of my name.



i want to save in my hands the speed of your walk,
and how we took turns
to catch up, slow down, slipping into
a common pace.



i want to show you that place in my heart
where moments are folded and kept;
i want to remember you this way, dear one,
before we let go
and forget.



(It happens at night, when all you hear is silence, save for the occasional car that drives by.) It happens when you're not protected by the activity of day and your mind finds no distraction; that's when he comes back.


You know it's your fault that this time he's more than words and memories. You don't even make yourself forget that look in his eyes or the touch of his fingers on your hand. The way he cracks the rare joke just to make you laugh, or how he remembers the silly story you told him two years ago. You know it's your fault that you let these things get to you, let them matter.


It only happens at night. The next day you're okay, it doesn't seem that bad anymore. You can't recall the tears or heartache, and you laugh at yourself for making a big deal. You slip right back into who you know yourself to be and you're genuinely happy. You don't believe, not really, that when night comes, it'll happen all over again.)

Hopes in us will rise and fall, rise and fall.

It becomes unbearable when you enter not by thought or by sight, yet still be able to plant an inextirpable presence right there in the midst of everything. I hold back from searching within the crowd because I know, I know it really isn't even you at all.

This redolence blows up in my face, pulls out a random memory that tells me again and again that I was wrong to have gotten used to it; I shouldn't have gone to sleep with your scent.