I Swear I’m Trying To Forget You. (More Apologies)

I threw those sheets away.
Your skin was everywhere.
Going to bed was all
threadbare used-to-be blue-grey
It was all especially softness in the center
where we used to be.
I swear there were pores on the pillowcases.
I washed them so many times and still
there was this faint smell of you
the stuff you washed your hair with
and the leftovers of your cologne.
Look at me.
I’m romanticizing bed sheets.
I got new ones
that seem to fit the bed a little too loosely.
Someone else sleeps there sometimes.
They’re a deep brown and I tell myself they
remind me of the way his eyes
look when he tells me he loves me and
not the way your skin
looked when I would open the windows and the
morning light would hit your back,
the rise of your shoulder blades,
the slight sink of your spine.

If I’m honest with myself.
The bed itself is a memory.
Sometimes I close my eyes and sink into you.
The only thing I don’t do is call him by your name.
He deserves much better than me,
than this;
than a moth-eaten half-love.
Every time I kiss him I am all an apology.

But at least I
threw those damned sheets away.
There are pores on the ground I walk on I swear.
The entire room is your story,
The earth feels like your hands.

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9 thoughts on “I Swear I’m Trying To Forget You. (More Apologies)

  1. I haven’t had a poem hit me in the gut so hard like this in a long time. Perhaps the first of its kind, in a sense. This piece is breathtaking and lyrical in a melody of grief and sorrow, all in its honesty. My dear poet, your writing has changed mine.

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