I made love with your memory last night.
It wasn’t something to hide or to be ashamed of.
It wasn’t supposed to become what it feels like now:
Sickening and sad.
I’m sitting in my bed and it’s 3am
and I’m still not sure how I get lost in your embrace after all this time.
Are you someone that means something to me?
Do all people have to mean something?
I suppose if I’m being kind I’d say “yes”.
If I’m being honest, my answer wouldn’t be kind but it would at least be real.
And I can hang my coat on the door this evening and break bread with your memory and know that my desires might be dark but my honesty is unwavering and I can sleep knowing I didn’t lie.
Yet my mouth still molds to the form of your name, my fingers still yearn to find the small of your back, and when everyone else has gone home and the room is empty,
I am there still missing the shit out of you…
I guess what I’m trying to say is,
you did mean something.