I wonder how you can look at anything and not feel your knees shake from the memory of it. I have been in your bed and cradled between your palms and your knees, in your shower and in the patch of sunlight that touches your room just before noon. Your sheets and your hair and your hips. Your lazy Saturday morning smile isn’t yours anymore. It’s mine. Look, there, you can see me. There’s my ghost. She’s waving at you. She’s saying ‘boy, you’ll need to burn this entire place down if you want to forget what happened here.’ She’s saying ‘man, all the ways we loved is splattered across these walls like murder.'

Popular posts from this blog

First generation immigrants | Ijeoma Umebinyuo

"in response to you're in a car with a beautiful boy"