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Penultimate

I left my clothes
at the door,  
because  
there isn’t anything  
left that you haven’t  
(tasted)  
(touched)  
(known)
 
seen  
 
I want to  
make some  
grandiose speech,  
tell you that  
it fucking sucks  
that a journey  
I thought would  
give me a few  
more years,  
a few more months,  
burned me alive  
in weeks.  
 
That you did that.  
 
But I don’t care  
anymore
.  
 
I don’t care  
about the  
journey.  
 
I can’t remember,  
anything important  
beyond  
these four walls,  
and the  
way you feel.  
 
It’s like my  
fortitude  
has amnesia,  
and I just want to  
go back and start again,  
to see if now makes  
sense a second time.  
 
Because now  
doesn’t make a  
lot of sense,  
it just tastes  
of pride;  
bitter,  
cold.  
 
And there was never  
anything but heat  
between us.  
 
I can’t remember  
why it won’t stop  
hurting.  
 
I can’t figure out  
why it’s so right  
to be apart.  
 
And all of the  
background noise  
is just silence,  
so forgettable,  
so unimportant;  
I can't remember  
why it all seemed  
so loud.  
 
The irony of the  
queen of  
never  
look  
back,
 
with a faulty  
memory,  
but fuck,    
I can’t stop  
flicking my eyes  
to the rearview,  
trying to remember  
why you're there in the past,  
instead of in the  
cheap hotel up the road  
waiting for me.  
 
I can’t  
remember  
anything  
but how much  
I want you.  
 
I want to ask  
you to help me  
through it.  
Then I want to steal  
your control  
and then crumble  
under your  
demands  
as if my  
own control  
were just a  
passing thought.  
  
I want to  
have that moment  
in the sun again;  
where we’d meet  
each other in the morning  
and laugh about weird shit.  
 
And I want to  
grab your shirt  
and tell you  
one more time  
to shut up and fuck me  
one more time  
 
and then one more time  
 
and then one more.  
 
and then…  
 
then it crashes back down  
that our unique brand  
of poison  
doesn’t leave  
survivors.  
 
And I can’t remember  
why I’d want to survive,  
without your hands in my hair,
 
   
but I guess  
it’s the  
right  
thing.  
 
The only thing I remember,  
without a doubt  
is this:  
 
The time we shared  
was precious to me  
 
and all the time  
I was dreaming  
 
of you.  
 
As always, love,  
I’ll see you there,  
in my dreams.  
 
I’ll leave my clothes  
at the door.  
 
Written by Betty
Published
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