Thirty-five.

As time passes
my memory fades
and your face becomes
a blur, your touch
a fleeting memory,
and your voice as I
imagine it was.

But in this moment,
fresh from the pain,
my memory is a
diamond and every
scene is crystal clear.

Each day erases
another detail - the
weather, the color of
your shirt, what we
ate - I am praying
the days pass quickly
until you are
nothing more than a
speck in my past
that doesn't cause this
all-consuming ache.

Thirty-four.

I used to count the
minutes
hours
days
until I saw you again.

Now I count the
hours
days
weeks
since you walked away.

Thirty-three.

How do people do
this over and
over again?

Each time my heart
swells and I feel
it growing like
a balloon until it
pops
and then I fill it
again over and
over.

But the holes
aren't patched and
each pop comes
quicker than the
last.

How do people
live like this?
Knowing at any
moment their balloon
may pop?

Thirty-two.

Is a heart a balloon?
Does it fill with happiness
until it pops and
you're left to mend the
shredded remains?

Or is it like a grape?
Do you exert pressure
until it explodes and
then move on to the next?

Does a heart wither and
die? Or is it continuously
mended?

Is this how we love?
Filling ourselves, pressing
down until there's
nothing left to
stitch together?

Where does it all go
when it feels like
everything's broken?

Thirty-one.

I think you called me
"Darling"
hours before you said
"This isn't working"
and I cried in to the
pillow as you watched.

It's the little things I
remembered now that
make me so angry -
the afternoon sex,
the hickey,
the affection,
eating dinner together.

How did these
beautiful little moments
lead to heartbreak?

Thirty.

My footsteps are measured
with the beats of my heart
and every step reminds
me of what I left behind -
school, my friends, my
heart.
You.
Your image is always
on my mind, your name
is always on my tongue.

Twenty-nine.

I should've written
this down before
it all went sour -
back when I
smiled at her name
and my friends
winked and
asked after my new lover.

Now it's all so bitter
and the mention of her name
makes me shrug or
change the subject.

I used to only talk
about her and we and how
it all felt so right.

Now I over analyze what
went wrong, what I
should have done better,
what I should have
said instead.

It always ends
like this,
but each time it feels
brand new.