Pieces of You: A Poem

Still now, I find pieces of myself that belong to you,
Like discovering sand in my pockets long after a trip to the beach,
They burrow in old wounds like grains of salt.

Most of the time, they are quiet, wallflowers amongst the party of my memories.
Introverted, as if they are ashamed to exist;
She’s suffered enough, they must think.
Letting her forget we’re here, this much we can do for her.

Other times, they are confused,
They ask after you-
Why they have not seen you in a while,
If you’ve been well, when you’ll be back,
But I don’t know how to tell them you’re not returning;

So instead, I talk about breaking up,
How it looks like the place we met, the one that has since closed.
Sounds like your favourite song, the one the radio loves to play.
Tastes like your name, and anyone who shares it.
Smells like my lobby, where someone else wears your cologne.
You were the first one to touch my lips, after all,
And every time I kiss now it feels like break-up.

Then there are days when they unravel, snake around my lungs;
On hazy mornings after waking from a dream about you,
When I have never been more disappointed to see sunlight,
They dig their nails into my brain like an archaeologist willing for the past to reignite.
When you post a photo with a prettier girl who shares my smile,
One my wilted muscles have long forgotten how to write,
They sink their teeth into my heart like canines who have just learned how to bite.

There are evenings when I bump into you on the street,
Almost as if we’d planned to meet,
And they plead at me to reach out and hug you.
On nights when I cling to tequila like a lifeline,
They scream at me to call you,
Reciting a series of numbers I’d long since forced myself to forget,
And every time I pull me back into myself, I know I have won a battle
But somehow, this feeling is anything but victorious.

You see, I don’t know how to open the door to these pieces without letting your smile leave too;
The one, I am ashamed to admit, I still use to keep warm on bitter winter nights.
I don’t know how to cut these pieces out without tearing myself apart in the process.

On better days, I sing lullabies to the pieces of you as I tuck them in at night;
About love, about how it’ll return someday.
It may have a little less height, but hug a bit more tight, smile a fraction more bright, and feel oh-so more right.
Sometimes love can adjourn, take a turn, leave a burn, but love will always return.
And sometimes, I can almost believe it myself.