There's an indentation in the shape of you in my mattress that sleeps with me,
and despite being washed and doused in my own perfume, the aroma of you still clings to your clothes that I sleep in.
I catch myself singing the songs that I've gathered in my mind that you played on the radio over hundreds of times- songs that never had much meaning to me before, but mean everything to me now.
The back of my hand misses your kisses as I rode in the passenger seat of your truck, and my fingers subconsciously trace the outlines of where your lips were pressed from time to time.
Nights are the loneliest, but then I remind myself that you were written in the stars and you're only a glance outside my window away from being with me.
- home isn't home when you aren't here.
YOU ARE READING
her revelation (journal entries)
Poetryjournal entries containing poetry and thoughts about all three people i've been in love with, along with some traumas and self-loathing sprinkled in-between.
