i think of you

sometimes, on nights like these

as i lay awake in the darkness that consumes me

i think of you.

it's then that i can still hear the whiskey on your breath

when i can still smell your perverseness staining my skin,

your fingerprints erasing every piece i thought i ever knew-of myself

i can only think of you.

that afternoon when the world went dark seems to permeate amongst the light of the evening

making shadows seem as if they were always meant to be friends,

always meant to be something standing, watching from the background

acting as the only witness, i will ever know, and will ever have when

i think of you

i feel the weight of you from behind my pillows

from underneath my sheets

the fabric softener i have chosen seems to be failing as a shield

the only one i have to protect me in the dark

the only tangible seperation i can find to grasp and keep myself from the un-consenting pain

i feel so helpless because

i can only think of you

i think of someone i think that know, have once maybe met in my life.

however

i know not of this strangers face,

but of his grip,

not of his color

but of his suffocation,

i know not of his hair,

but of his blood, my blood-

which mixed into our conjoined sweat: mine cold, his heated.

fabric is what singularly seperated us that day.

that was all it was.

it had to be there in order for you to remain a mystery.

like a bed that requires sheets,

you too, require a covering to detach from me; from any victim or survivor.

perhaps you knew me-

knew that the moment i looked into your eyes, i would know you from another life, or time.

i would become apart of you, permeate and infect like a wounded scar

a bad burn telling a story from your past: that was my past.

perhaps you knew that seeing my face may make you feel....something? anything but nothing.

i think of you.

after-all, you buckled me in.