I hear this song and think about the way you'd touch my face.
your skin was rough but you always touched me so gently that i barely noticed you were there.
you used to tell me my eyes were the most beautiful eyes you had ever seen.
you'd ask to hear my slow breathing over the phone while i'd fall asleep.
i used to exaggerate my exhales so that you could picture the waves of my hair pressed gently across my pillow and my mouth shaped into a small o.
youd embrace the cold winds of december and january just to see me fall asleep on your shoulder while we sat on the sidewalk outside of my house.
you were perfect in a terrible way.
today, i hate you.

The flowers are sitting in a vase on the table.
the table cloth that the vase is placed on is a bright purple.
It's beautiful.
The sun is in the way of my shining eyes.
They water and they look away with green tint coloring the world around me for 3 minutes.
the number 3 settles uneasily in my stomach because of what it signifies.
it signifies how many times i've tried and failed.
I look down at the book in my hands and it's leather binding makes me feel old.
as the leather begins to tear, I begin to tear.
these words hold me together with the flower placed upon the table.
both the book and the flower are joined at the hip and connect my body to the superficial world that i create in my mind.
in this world i am beautiful and elegant.
i write stories and poems on my type writer while i sit naked in the rain.
there are strange lights that always fill the void that loneliness creates in these dreams.
i snap back to reality and find the sun going down, leaving the flowers in plain view now.
you're still not home.
the book is marked on page 95.
i hope you still love me when the sun rises in the morning and you find me at this table again.