Who is your replacement?
My attempts to find one have just been you
but replicated.
I find fragments of your personality,
piece them into porcelain dolls,
toy with them the way you did me
and when the climax comes around,
I picture your rugged face.
I picture the positions we used to play-wrestle in,
but more importantly, the tender stretches we would hold each other in.
I miss your lips
how they used to spit
every bold thought you thought of.
How cruel, how they could barely whisper how you felt
about me.
Your silence is so attractive,
so luring,
but I know when the gates to your ego part
you'll ask,
"How many guys have driven your car?"
and I'll say
"How many girls have sat in your passenger seat?"
Our energy is always matching.
I write this while blaring speakers wither away my ear drums and color-changing lights hypnotize me.
Yet, all I do is ponder if you're alright, if someone's in your passenger seat or if you're both in the back.
Worst of all, I wonder: will I ever be able to ask you these questions?
We'll just have to see
in due time, my love...
-Hanna Guzman (2021)
