Wanderlust 

Your tongue, it straddles mine in the most unusual of ways. You call me two nights ago, you say you miss me. You say you’re sorry, you say you have found someone new. Someone that makes your toes curl up and the meeting of your legs moist. You say you kiss her and your stomach explodes into stars. You say you have found the one.

You call me again last night, I am in the middle of burying my heart in the arms of a random girl I met on tinder, I am bending her hair with my fingers and sharing poetry with her whilst holding you in my imagination.

You ask me if I’m happy. And for a moment I wonder if I am, I wonder if I was, before you called me. I wonder if this girl in my arms, like the others, is once again playing co-star with you in the hall ways of my heart.

But this isnt about my love for you. This is about how my hands have learned how to hold bodies that are not yours and did not scar. It is about how my feet are finally brave enough to walk in directions away from you.

It is about the girl in my mouth and how she tastes your name when we kiss. It is about how sometimes when I tell her I love her, I am half lying, half telling the truth to a version of a woman I lost many years ago, that floats in and out of my breath as I try to find the words to tell her I love her too. 

It is about how sometimes she looks at me and sees absence, sees nostalgia and the hand prints of a woman she can never compete with. And I am tired, of giving her less than my honest, less than the left overs of a burnt out teenage love affair.

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