The secrets you whisper into your pillow.
The tale of the moist tissue.
The reason why your world blurs a little when you listen to this song or look upon that picture.
Your heartbreak feels warm as it rolls down my cheek.
I know what to get you for your next birthday, waterproof mascara.
He calls and you’d immediately answer.
Even as we lay about in various states of undress on the noisy-when-used bed of the shady hotel room
It’s almost like I’m not there anymore.
I don’t just listen to your side of the conversation, it gets etched in my brain.
And the scars bleed afresh when you ask me exactly the same questions in exactly the same tone.
And in my answers;
Tell me, is it his voice you look for?
I’ve never had the guts to say it out loud because I’m protected within my delusions that you mean your “I love you”s and “I miss you”s, but sweetheart, I’m afraid of kissing you because you close your eyes.
And as you sigh after;
Tell me. Is it his lips you think of?
I don’t know if it’s you or me that I’m sparing by acting ignorant, but I figured out why you like being the little spoon.
You want to be held, but you don’t want to be reminded of “by whom”
So as you snuggle against me, facing the other way;
Tell me. Is it his arms that comfort you?
Sometimes it doesn’t seem that bad though, When on some nights you keep your head on my chest and doze off to the rhythm. It’s breathtakingly beautiful.
But those are the days I curse my coffee addiction for keeping me up.
Because you talk in your dreams, love.
So tell me. Is it still his heartbeat that lulls you to sleep?
I’ve already heard your goodbyes sweetheart,
Even though you haven’t said them yet.
Because hopeless as I am,
I know what to be for your next birthday, your waterproof mascara.