Photo by James Fitzgerald on Unsplash

Maybe this is growing up,
The dead skin that glowed scattered
On the fireplace, I glance
Once more at the place you’d hang your
Coat and I can’t feel you anymore
But I remember feeling scared
The night we met in the apartment of a
Friend, I remember
The way you drove me to my car
And how yours smelt of balsamic
From the salads you would eat
On your way to
Work,
And you went home, smoked
A joint in the shower and I
Knew then if not love
Then something close
Something so inescapably light
The eye doesn’t notice,
And before I knew myself I knew you

I look at the single plate before me
And remember all the nights
I cooked the same thing
And we ate happily
Like it was all
Alright,
Like we were home

You are gone now,
I eat alone,
I get high
Alone
I am never quite home
And maybe that is part of growing up,
The place beside me empty
My eyes dissect the couch
Through heavy lids

Writer, model, flower child gone wrong. I write about the things I’ve learned; from great thinkers and from my own absurd life experiences.

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