I still miss you.
Or rather I miss the idea of you.
The what if of us.
I have scars from the words you told me.
Remains of what I tried to carve out.
A constant reminder of the us that never was.
I have bruises from where you held me.
Marks of being wanted.
Created in the shadows by us.
I have this uneasiness hanging over me.
This fear of your words, too pretty to be true.
I will forget your breath on my neck.
And the touch of your fingers on my ribs.
But darling, tell me this,
how am I to forget the warmth of words breathed out in the dark?
If we are Ash, am I too no more?