It begins when my eyes open. A small crack of light is all I need to remember the room. The shadows made by a candle.
I know (I know)—ITS OVER—but the memories play like a song I hate to remember because once you do they don’t go away—they stay and you rethink them over and over until you forget why you hate remembering in the first place. No scent, in case you count the one s/he left on my skin. He stopped wearing cologne after he figured out he didn’t need it to impress me. The candle stayed because I think he liked it. I always wore perfume so when I left his bed a piece of me remained. Ligature marks decorate my wrists and when I complain you say it’s good, This way you’ll always remember me and I’m angry at you for saying it because you knew I was yours.
You’re mine.
Said after you tucked a strand of synthetic hair behind my ear and placed your hand on my cheek.
