How do you lose something that you never had in the first place?
Maybe you were just bored. Maybe I didn’t care.
You make me want to forget everything. Even after time has passed by in such a way I’ve started to forget what you felt like in the vicinity of me, out of touch, just a blurred figure in the background of my smile. My eyes closed against you.
You could only take away what I gave you. But that shard of me will forever be lodged somewhere under your skin, a reminder. You may forget me completely but that dull ache will be there when the weather starts to get warm again, the cuff of your t-shirt begging for those angles of your shoulders, the way my teeth found that shallow dip near your clavicle.
Maybe I never had you in the in-between of you opening your eyes and mouthing “good morning” and your sigh as you fell back under heavy breath.
Maybe I never had the way you took my clothes off. Or the way I watched you, watching me when I moved my shoulder so slightly, it let one strap fall down the plane of my shoulder blade. Never in the way you were insatiable for my body, but how, when it was raining in the glow of a night that’s never black in the city, you pulled me into you on unfamiliar street corners, as if sheltering me with an invisible wing.
It was never as if I belonged to you for long stretches of time, but in sentence fragments. In the way you looked at me through a camera lens. In the honesty after too much whiskey. In the unconscious movements you made in sleep.
Maybe I read into things. Maybe I read between the lines of you.
Maybe I never had you to begin with.
And for the first time, she felt like his biggest mistake, knew it, was certain of it.
She thought of a butterfly caught by the hands of a child who didn’t understand how important, how delicate her wings are, pinching them between his fingers and effortlessly tearing a detaching them from her body.
She was disposable, a body to touch, to sweat against. A body of text on the other end of the line to caress and slide against until it felt so good that he wasn’t bored anymore. And then as quickly as she was everything she dissipates into the thick of the words that built every limb of her.
I remember the moths in that unseasonably cold night for July. How white they were against that backdrop of sky as you flicked the lighter and they came closer to you.
How shouldn’t I remember you now?