Even though you don't love me,

the smoke you left behind is choking me.

I'm blinded by the gray.

Maybe

the worst part

is that you left all kinds of scars I couldn't understand.

Not the marred flesh I'm so accustomed to,

but something much worse than that.

And there are not enough late night conversations or drunken stupors to make me understand.

If I turn on the right song and close my eyes, I can feel the old you next to me.

Feel the way you touched my hair,

smell the smoke and the crisp winter air and you.

You looked so beautiful blurred around the edges,

dancing in that infinite twilight.

I miss the way it sounded when your breathing slowed

and you would become as innocent as I wanted you to be.

I only love you when I'm mising you, 

or what you used to be,

a handsome beacon even more enchanted than Gatsby's green light.

This is what we tell ourselves was love.

I am now,

and maybe always was,

something to pity.

I wanted to be so much more than just an echo,

but that is all I ever was to you.

I am peeling back my skin,

and regretting it as I go,

knowing that soon,

very soon,

there will be a me that you have never touched.