imprint

i see you in everything—the sun slanting into the back seat of my car, the way a stranger’s neck flows into their left shoulder at exactly the same curvature as yours, the cupid’s bow of your upper lip in every onscreen actor i root for. it’s obsession.

but what can’t i let go of? the way you took a phone call about another girl in front of me? surely not the way you spent an entire dinner talking about your ex? or the way you called me needy when i asked for the bare minimum?

the bad stuff hurt, but the worst part is that my brain has to work so hard to remember it. because when i think of you, i think of your quick smile, the soft stroke of your hand on my face, the look in your eyes when we... how can a human body be so stupid as to latch onto the first thing that touches it? sentiment is a prison.

sometimes there is no closure. flush the drug, drink your water, and hope one day the sun in the back of your car will just be the sun again.