I haven't written freely since you left.

I don't visit your grave and I don't write letters to people I don't believe in. I can't do that these days. This is just me arguing fact.

I don't believe in you and I don't think I ever did. You existed and left indentations on my wrists. I moved and you followed me in a shoebox of my own creation. I can still picture your face and hear your voice. Your thumbprint on my groin glowed purple for days and I still trace over the spot, marking it with ink when I'm feeling so desperately lost. The violence we threw at one another astounds me but I can't say that I don't try to replicate it. Because I do. Constantly.

I date brunettes but fuck strawberry blondes without names, covering their mouths and squeezing my eyes shut as I play pretend like I'm five and this is completely what I want in life. I mouth your name over and over but attribute it to the coke that plays arrhythmia with my heart. My lips move and they find it sweet. You found it annoying, the way I bit and tore with such innocence.

I was a child when I met you. I still feel like one but the thing is, you will always be twenty-two. Your numbers never change. You never have to grow up. To think that sometimes I envy you that - your static nature, your never-changing babyblues.

But I am arguing fact, not emotion. So let me conclude this ridiculous love affair. You left me babyblue.

You are gone.

I tend to forget that these days but I like it that way.

Thus concludes the lesson.