I used to gaze at your face,
only looking away shyly
when you sensed my attention.
I used to imagine us
lying on my dirty bedsheet
watching movie after movie,
not really paying attention to the plot,
too focused on the smoothness
of each other's skin.
I used to reherse possible conversations-
me telling you all the things that hurt,
you simply nodding and touching
my fingers.

But lately,
thoughts of you have been interupted
by a woman with purple lips
surrounded by flowers.
These past few days
my grief leaves no room
for infatuation.

Yet somehow you climb your way in
and stay,
tethered to my mind's eye
by a silver string.
Fantasies of our fingers
weaving through hair
provide comfort,
a distraction from my tears.
And when my guilt
begs your image to depart,
you stubbornly dig your heels in,
stubbornly refusing to abandon my thoughts.

I say to friends
I give up on you.
I write that you no longer consume me
when you're simply hiding under
memories and this empty feeling,
ready to emerge before I sleep,
clutching your silver string securely.