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
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
Like we were home

You are gone now,
I eat alone,
I get high
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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