how the words come

among the gray

i watch our story on rewind
in black and white.

sometimes i wish i could
see the blue of your irises
but i don't think i'll ever be able
to picture us in color again.

i don't love you anymore,
i know better than that now,

but i still find myself writing about you
late at night when i forget how to breathe
and it's like,

how do i learn to breathe again
without it being because of you?

i traded a kind love for a powerful love,
and you gave me it--
i still find traces of you in every damn thing,
the backseat of a car and the booth of a restaurant,
i guess in a way we're lasting like we said we would,
and you know,

i think about you on friday nights
when my friends are out drinking and i'm sitting at home
writing this stupid fucking book about you
because for some reason i can still trace the shape of your mouth with my finger in the mirror, even now,

and i don't think i love you anymore
because it's not that i miss you, it's not that i want you back,
it's just that i still have to justify why i'm always looking for
skeletons in their closet, i still leave the door open because
i don't want to make their awaited exit any more painful,

and the thing is, the reason why i can't stop writing about you,
is that despite the cracks in my cheeks and the way my hands shake
when i touch his chest, how i can't seem to stop looking over my shoulder,

i still don't regret a single fucking thing.

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