3am. Untidy bedroom, clothes and empty plates on every surface. A man is slouched over a desk with an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
I remember when we met.
I remember, the music too loud. Your shoes too small, you told me. And then you spent the rest of the evening with one hand resting on my shoulder, the other working its way deep into my chest. Making the little hole in my heart that aches so empty.
I remember the first time you followed me in through my front door. I was terrified you’d be gone when I turned around. But you straightened up from putting your bag on the sofa and said music?
I remember that morning, when you woke me up by coming back to bed. You pulled the sheets up to your shoulders and stroked your finger down my arm. Then you told me where you had to go, and how long you’d been thinking about it. And I think it was only last week, that morning. When she whipped her hand from the hole in my heart. Still raw and unhealed, still losing blood. Maybe it makes the time move slower.
Remembering every moment she was close to me. Sitting in a restaurant, her arm curled around mine. Her fingers stroking gently along my upper arm. Then touching the sleeve of my shirt and tucking into the fold of my elbow. Anywhere to be closer.