Tendencies

I woke up this morning, and tried to wash my face in the sink
Only to find that our water has been shut off, leaving behind a vestige,
in the form of a single drop, that took its time falling from the faucet, to the old ceramic.
It reminded me of our time together. How everything was cancelled,
how hardly anything ever made it through again. Anything that managed to only splattered.

I feel guilty for my sorrow. For the way I covet the cedar mirror in your bathroom.
The one with the little bit of scotch tape on it, holding up a long-wilted dandelion.
It gets to see you every day, and maybe you smile at it. It sees you when I don't.

But any sleep I've lost over your absence is in vain. It troubles me that I even care.
I shouldn't. Other people have tragedies far more grand than mine.
Such problems that would even make someone want to waste their life.
And even though the melancholy in my chest bleeds for them, too.
I can't help but still only think of you. I assume it's because you were my comfort.

The depression you left in my bed still smells like you. A scent unknown in any book.
I can't describe it with any word that hopes to do it justice, only that it is my favorite.
But it must not be exclusive, because I swear I smell you sometimes when I'm alone.
I whip around, expecting you to be sneaking up on me, like you used to,
with your silly, crooked smile, bouncing on the balls of your feet like a little girl.

But I find only strangers in a crowd, and empty bedrooms with shaken foundations.
I am lucky the scar with your name healed, that's one less reminder I see on my chest.
Those six letters burned a lot, even though my skin is always numb.
But there are seventy-six more, and they don't play as nicely, from behind my veil.
I guess I cut too deep when it didn't matter as much, luckily I have a lot of blood.
I feel guilty even as I write, because another person's name is on everyone's mind.

But still, sadness links my life together like chains thrown through it.
And every blot of ink forces me to backtrack, reading the previous chapters in my book.
I flip through the cleanest pages as slowly as my shaking hands will allow,
until my eyes hurt, and I am afraid I might tear one out of it's socket on accident.
Maybe a few pages along with it, for good measure.
At least I tried, and that my friends assume the storm has moved on.

But I've just learned to weather it better, and make it seem like I am uplifted.
Why else do you think would I change my clothes so much?
wear bright colors and tie a smile to my face, instead of hiding under a beanie 
in darkness, riding on rap lyrics so I don't drown. But who am I kidding?
I'm sure you never noticed the difference. Yet still, I thank you for what you've done.

Everyone has to have a first love, and a heartbreak. Now maybe I won't fall so hard,
when my imaginary girlfriend leaves me soon. She's waiting for you to pick when.
She's waiting for you to tell her you are vulnerable, and you need me back.
I hope she finds out soon, but I don't think we will.