April 8th, 2011

It was in a clothing store, I think, where I caught your ghost again, lingering somewhere in the air with a face I can’t quite remember. 

You gave me a shirt that morning - the morning I stayed - so I wouldn’t have to walk in shame, and I still have it. 

I found it lying in a pile of dirty laundry the other night and I pressed it against my face and it smelled like you - stale cigarette smoke, something musky and effortlessly protective, endlessly comforting.

And I sat on my bed, just like that, with your shirt in my arms, awash in your scent and absorbed in a world of whatcouldhavebeens. 

I’m not going to say I miss you. 

I just miss the feeling of having someone there. I miss being able to press my body against another living, breathing human being. I miss the shared warmth and the gentle beating of another heart and the feeling of your arms wrapped around me and your hot breath on the back of my neck. I miss just being able to lay there and not have to worry about the consequences of lacing my fingers through yours, because you wanted it too - to touch and be touched.

And I miss being able to call you mine, even if it was only for a little while. 

I was in a clothing store today and I passed by a shirt that reminded me of you. 

And I remembered the different parts of you - your eyes and your smile and your hair - but not together. Just little fragments here and there. And every time I tried to make you whole, you fell apart. 

So there you were, just beautiful pieces lingering in the air, and one by one I caught them all. 

And by the time I left I’d let them go.