Punctuation

Revisiting

As I revisit her, I wonder how she ever could have survived.
I forget sometimes what kind of broken glass comes from dropping pretty vases on concrete.
And she tends to remember that type of thing; always, always cautious with her every movement.
Never too swift, constantly soft to the touch.
It was so easy to open her up again and step inside.
Too easy.
I read her like a children's book, following the outlines of the colorful pictures housed between her ends.
Her hair color was never the same,
But goodness, were her footsteps. I knew every step she would take before it was taken.
Maybe at one point this was something beautiful.
I can't see it being anything other than ugly now.
She is still in me. I can feel her. I know her better than anyone else.
She is the person who knows his number by heart, even after deleting it from her cell.
She is the person who texts just like he does, who he texts just like. Because they built each other that way.
Commas instead of periods.
Spaces to separate thoughts.
Structured in the same tone.
She is the person who aches for those days and the similarities between her and the boy she saw herself loving until the end of time.
I've done a lot of revisiting her lately, in only 24 hours I've seen a lot of her again.
While some of her is refreshing, the rest of her is suffocating.
There's an emptiness there, from where the pieces of the vase were glued back together.
Just little spaces where the weathering and water and air and time can wear it all away again.
Little spaces that were not a part of her to begin with.