Love, You didn’t reside but left your residue in me.

six weeks since the last draft, I decided to rewrite what I felt was the remains of you being in me. Like the way you would spoon me around, your cold fingers on my spine, your lips pressed against my neck, it’s a little funny how we never kissed, you know, you didn’t ask and I was never the asking kind. It’s been almost four years since I called you at midnight and you said you couldn’t talk, you said you were with someone and asked me not to call anymore. I swear I haven’t cried for anyone since. We’re still on talking terms and sometimes, just sometimes at four in the morning when I wake up from a bad, bad dream, I wish you were there.
You told me about the ghetto you were brought up in, how your parents were illegal immigrants in a land of many, how you learnt to love basketball and math, how you admire the German way of life. I remembered you told me how the process is more important than the outcome, in the single ever conversation that we ever had.
You tell me you’ve changed, you’re clean now. You’ve left alcohol like you’d left home, but I don’t tell you how your words reek of dishonesty.
I found you in the wit of some other lover, trying to fit in your shoes, but he’s still here, and you’re long gone, and I can’t, I can’t sleep tonight. Your voice plays in my head like an Amit Trivedi song that I can’t seem to get rid off. Love, I still have specimen of your handwriting in the pages of my scrapbook that I left at home, you’re too terrifying to be carried along, and I can’t sleep with you in my mind.
You’re not one, you’re many. I remember you, because I write about you. I imprint you in my palms like I intend to forget the things I care about the most, only I don’t. I don’t forget things easily, you know, like how your eyes would never focus on mine, or how you would stand below my balcony on days we both would wake up late, or how easy falling out of love is.
And love, I wouldn’t forget how you didn’t reside but left your residue in me.

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