i try to write about you,
but the words do not flow.

maybe i have forgotten exactly how you hurt me.
so much has happened.
my pen slips off the page.

i think of you.
i see us laughing.
another universe.
sometimes it calls to me.
little me, and you. (before.)

i see its remnants in the headlights of passing cars.
your shadow waits under streetlights.

i see you in the reflection of a pond.
catfish swim beneath.
the water ripples,
and you are gone again.
perhaps for the better.

your car rolls into the driveway of a home we do not share.
you are not here for me.
we exchange glances.
my sister climbs into the truck,
i recoil back into the house,
an injured animal.
you are gone.
i lock the door behind me.

crimson is the body of the fawn,
lifeless on the shoulder.
her mouth hangs open,
gashes trace her ribs.
her disfigurement forcing her
to curl in on herself.
tonight, the earth will envelop her with its caress,
returning her most of her to the dirt she was before.
only her bones will remain
unnaturally positioned from impact.

i dont hate you.
i dont think i could hate a person less.
your name is like a papercut,
and each reminder
nicks it just a little deeper
digging just a little farther
into the pit of my stomach,
unearthing memories
that were buried for a reason.
i dont hate you.
i wish i could.