The other night, I raided my closet
for traces of you.
I'd already sold the perfumes we
shared, yet you were continually
toying with my
delirium.
I found your postcards, from
ten years ago, when you walked
the damp streets of Paris
for twelve hours straight,
stomach empty, heart full;
the Louvre and Eiffel Tower
lingered on your American lips.
You wrote so small, I almost
needed a magnifying glass;
you traveled to Spain,
writing that the women in
Barcelona had style -
proud, confident, beautiful.
I never realized I'd soon
describe you in the same fashion.
You still managed to
reserve love for me amidst
the masterpieces.
We were just kids then,
before knowing of addictions,
before bleeding to survive.
Remember how you wanted
to start a band?
You asked for my advice.
You said you needed me.
Now we don't need each other.
The ink's invisible, or maybe it's
always been dry.
Even when I try to rouse you
in my dreams,
no one's there.
There's no more space to
haunt you,
and it shouldn't have taken
me a decade to realize this.
