No matter what I wrote in poems only minutes before
I still can’t believe it
I still see you in every silver Toyota that drives by
I still taste you on my tongue
With every cigarette
I still picture you facing me on my wall
I still feel your arms and your warmth around me as I walk by the park we’d lain in only weeks before
I still see you laying across my bed, with the light flooding in through the window, over the covers, separated only by my heavy backpack.
I still see you in every paper crane I consider making
Unable to decide to make them again, and I see you in the 1 dollar bills I’d made one out of.
When someone walks into Astro smelling of pot,
I remember what it had tasted like on your lips
And how it had felt to kiss you when I’d had some too
I can’t picture the birds tattoo I want
Without remembering you had become one of them
I can’t look at the pirate bracelet on my left wrist, nor the black bandana on my right, nor my watch, nor my stone bracelet, nor my 3 rings without picturing you and your 3 rings, and your brown hair and your hazel eyes and your thin, veiny hands and your toned arms and how your jeans slip down, unable to cling to your hips, your scruffed-up shoes, that beenie you wore before you lost it and your black Vuarnet sunglasses and your butterfly knives and that ridge between your eyebrows when you think deeply, and your lips. Your strong shoulders, your thin chest, that stomach I’d run my hands over only days or weeks before
It already feels like you’re gone
A dream or a nightmare
An unconscious moment of distraction I made up in my head
And I am completely unable to think of your hands on me
It seems impossible
That you were not just a figment of my imagination
That it was not just a stupid thing I’d imagined, an I-wish-this-would-happen-to-me-therefore-I’ll-imagine-it moment
Did you ever exist?
Were you ever really here?
Did this happen?
Will I see you again?
No more drifting
Dig my feet into this coarse, thick earth
And plant myself there
Let the roots grow
And hope you come back to pick the fruits on my limbs
Hope I’m still a beacon to hold onto,
A familiar tree you see when you drive by, lost, unable to find your direction.