“This is how you do it: you sit down at the keyboard and you put one word after another until its done. It's that easy, and that hard.” -Neil Gaiman

The guilt that rattles my bones tells me that I should be over you by now.
But you are not an ocean between two destinations,
There are no maps to circumvent my desire to revisit you or destroy the longing in my veins.
Certain smiles can be as permanent as scars,
and God knows yours cut deeper than any blade I introduced to my flesh.
Somehow you are still as lethal as the first goodbye.
The memory of you is radioactive, mutating each electric buzz in my body and brain, each bent in slow ways, like the silhouette of young lovers under the same September moons that birthed you two decades ago.

The two blue pills remind me that I am supposed to learn from my losses,
which I guess explains the four walls I barricaded myself in once you vanished.
But you’ll never know of the rings around my eyes that were once thick enough to orbit a planet,
because you burnt out faster than the sun.
I wish at least I had that extra seven minutes before it went dark.

This poem is long overdue,
but less like milk gone bad and more like a library book that I don’t have the heart to give up.
I’ve read it back to back, more times than I can count, more times than I would ever admit.
And see, there’s something romantic in the way I will never forget you
in the same way it was foolish of me to believe how anybody over the age of eighteen
could associate goodbye with anything other than fresh crimson on the bathroom floor.

I’ve learned misery is something very close to missing you.

+ 11

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