As you guide your fingers over my eyes, be sure to tell me first that I fucked it all up. That it was my fault that these days you have longer hair and a wider smile and a new face to come home to. But check your tongue again, and you’ll still find the remaining roots I pressed beneath with my own, the words I left in your throat so that someday you can remind yourself that this wasn’t the way it was supposed to end, and sometimes I wish to myself that you had hurt me physically instead, because at least then, you can watch those scars as they heal. And while you’re running through New York, breathing in the scent of smokestacks and urban opportunity, I’m still here trying to write about you and forget about you and not think about you, and my legs won’t stop feeling like white noise and old television, and my coffee resembles an ocean that I’d like to drown myself in, burnt hands, dusty fingertips, wordless speeches, sentences that come out more like fragments than anything else because ever since you left, I forgot what it means to be complete. I can think of twenty-four different ways to apologize, one for every hour that I miss you in a day, but that’s not going to bring you back from the new life you’ve created for yourself. The back of my mouth still tastes like you, still tastes like late breakfast, foreign words, half a cigarette we took from beneath someone’s car, and I swear we shook the whole parking garage when we sat on the sixth floor and stared at the world we’ve been contributing a lot to lately. And you looked at me with the kind of gaze that only silence knows how to spell, taught me that if you rub your eyes hard enough, you can still see the stars even when it’s bright outside. I can still swallow bits of your voice, see all the shapes we left behind in the sheets, shapes geometry told us wasn’t possible. I don’t know if I will, but if I ever see you again, be sure to tell me not to say a word, because every sentence will begin with “I’m sorry”, and I will try to tell you that I still love you and that I want you to take me out of the past tense and push me into your arms and tell me that it was me, that I fucked it all up. And one day, you’ll turn the corner, and you won’t look back, and it’ll hurt, but maybe that’s all it’s going to take for me to realize what it means to start over, and that sometimes the fact that we even tried at all is the only thing that really matters anymore.