I Think About Him Sometimes

I think about him once in a while-
trying not to step on cracks in the pavements
of our old street
counting passing buildings on the bus;
my head on his shoulders,
his fingers pressed against the glass window
we were yelling, I saw a glimpse of a monster
I didnt remember loving
and he said sorry, he did
but he sounded so tired of the way I take offence
in his indifference
said I was blowing things out of proportion
was love supposed to suffocate,
Or is it just you

I let my fingers stay cold
on days that are raining
folded my sweaters and stored them away
in the bottom drawer
remember him saying he liked the way
my breath escapes me like tiny clouds of smokes-
reminds him of the last time he smoked
reminds him of the way I scrunched my face at the smell
and he threw away his half burnt cigarette
with the packet
and I thought he loved me, he really did

artsy boys make me think about
his scenery paintings
wonder if they still look as alive as they used to
or if beauty wears out like love does;
if he stopped signing my initial on the back of his sketches,
started teaching someone else’s fingers to hold brushes
I still visit places we went together
out of habits
a missing pair of arms doesn’t take away
my coffee addiction,
and a need for a quiet laundry place
I bet he had forgotten all about the bench
we sat on when he told me
it felt like a dream
bet he can’t remember what I said

I didn’t beg, I probably didn’t ask him to stay
love is not a dog on a leash
wondered if it’s worth it keeping something
that doesn’t want to be kept
so I let him go
I let him bring back all his stuffs scattered
around my house
I think he mistakenly took a piece of me
with him

I think about him sometimes,
probably more times than I’d like to

here to serve some passive aggressive poems
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