you are not even a remembered person anymore. everything I have left has been bleached by the absence of you. the nights where I'm ripped apart and imagining conversations between us, playing out the words you would say, the way your skin would look. what i have left now is what I wanted you to be, the things i should have said, the replaying of you in the dark as my puppet with my hand around your waist, fingertips moving up your shirt.

 and there's more than that too; my whole wanting of you now is tainted. its this thing, this you left me and not me you and you're the only girl who's ever done that to me. its the don't you understand i still want you what do you mean you dont want me. i'm out of the power position now and so there's nothing I want more than to be on top of you.

rip me up girl and I'll write all of the perfect love letters to all the others. they'll eat out of my hand, they'll call me late at night. invite me to their apartments in every other city and I lie on my back on their hardwood floors and they tell me everything. don't you see that I'm still only writing this for you? that maybe you'd have a twinge of jealousy - something you've told me about but I'm terrified of because I've still never seen it.

what more could I possibly offer? i talk in all the perfect ways and write in even more. intelligent, charming, funny. a nice body. what more could you want from me? it seems to be such a grave miscalculation, the kind of thing that inevitably has to be regretted; right? wont someday you turn your head back and realize what a mistake you've made? honestly, i really might consider taking you back. i can probably forgive you.


to me now, you are perfect. nearly every time I dream, you're there. i love you and still you are not even a remembered person anymore; there isn't any you. only the awful, bizarre shadow cast off of some two year passed image in the streetlight and the photos of you kissing your boyfriend on Facebook.