Explain to me how I am supposed to erase you from a city which bleeds memories of you and I?
Summer, in the afternoon heat, sand rolling down my thighs and holding hands in spite of it. Get-togethers up and down the street in places I don't know how to get to, with groups of people I won't remember and who won't remember me. Drinking until our visions blurred, our smiles swayed, so many bottles of vodka my veins began to blush. Always laughing, kissing, meeting new people, and when our eyes met across a room everything stood still and I could hear the faint echo of the bass burning in my ears. These are all things I can't seem to shake from behind my eyes, because these memories are embedded in my bones; fleeting secrets and goodbye kisses sink through my skin and etch themselves into my spine.
Impulse, that is how I would describe you. Everything was always so quick, always changing, always moving, always. It is almost as if you were constantly two steps ahead of me and I was just waiting to see where you would go next. You hooked my heart with your words (your fingers, your lips, your fucking smile) and tore me from the inside out. I wanted to whisper poetry into your mind and imprint love letters to your eyes. But I saw the stars on the back of your neck and a burning sun where your heart should be.
All the memories I can't blur, like they crawl beneath my skin. I want to fill my mind with smoke, with flashes of Summer nights, the sounds of the streets and the city and the people so loud that it blocks out the sensory memory of your laughter. Like that time we climbed into bed together and my head felt fuzzy - we lay like victims, together and alone. And when I kissed you, I could taste the Sea on your lips and the Sea has always been home to the scolding side of me. Making love two, three, four times and waking up halfway clothed to the midday sun streaming in. I stand here now and everything is so empty, eerie and still. The breakups and makeups and the waiting and the pushing and the pulling and the way you touched me all exists here, hanging thick in the air, suffocating me. These are things that make my tongue curl and eyes spin.
Sometimes I wish I could get it all back; looking at each other and knowing this was something that was changing us, or me at least. I've never met someone I could actually point at and say You Are Something, You Are Important, But I Do Not Love You. Something like this is rare, and it burns when you aren't ready for it, like it leaves acid stains on the ends of your lashes. I am rubbing my cheeks, scraping my flesh and wishing I could find a way to make you smaller, tinier, less of Something.
But this city, this room, these walls. They all remind me of the way you call me Stupid. And I am, I am.
side note: Have a fucking awesome Easter.