They put me on pills to forget you. I can’t help it though. You found your way through my mind and took my veins and webbed yourself a bed out of them. I smell you each time I breathe and I taste your lips. I can still feel the way you trace the scar under my eyebrow and ask me how it got there. The story hurts less when I tell you. I can hear your gentle breath humming in my ears and the way you would tell me you loved me when you thought I was asleep. You never told me to my face though. I remember the time you came to my house at 2 a.m. and told me how you got a call from your boyfriend telling another girl he loved her. And the time you took him back because he told you he was “sorry babe, I love you though”. I could tell you I loved you too and mean it. Or the time you were single for a whole summer and you asked if I wanted to go on a road trip with you to Nevada. Of course I said yes. And when you pulled up to my house, my mom was drunk and asked if we were “friends with benefits” and you awkwardly laughed and I took your hand and ran to your car. I apologized probably a thousand times and you just laughed it off. You drove most the way to Nevada and I slept. You told me I snore when I sleep and I felt bad but you said it was cute so you were fine with it. I offered to drive so you could get some rest. You were so beautiful when you slept. I couldn’t stop staring at you. I know I should've kept my eyes on the road but you were so breath taking and bright. Not as bright as the headlights of the upcoming car though. Within a second we hit the other car and you went through the windshield. I swear I saw it all happen. I could picture it now. But the only memory I can tolerate is the one where I woke up in the hospital. My mom was crying. And I looked next to me and you weren’t there. Two weeks later there was a funeral. I had dreams it was me and not you.
I’m sorry.
