It still hurts to think;

your name still feels like grit on my tongue.

 

I folded my bedsheets this morning

and something about the soft linen

sounded like your voice.

I need to stop finding you in places you've never

even been.

 

Right now I'm struggling to find a way to love you

let alone to love myself.

 

You see, the difference between us

is that your fire is still burning - my flames

were doused years ago.

 

I hate you for carrying on living

and I hate myself for not being able to.

 

(ak)