Sometimes I'm lost, crawling through a heavy fog that dampens my senses and steals my sense of direction. Sometimes I run and wake up in the morning with bruises. Splotches of purple and blue and red, splattered across my skin, and I'm reminded of the time I spent with you. Before you went away.
Sometimes I scream. I turn the music up too loudly, letting it thrash the walls and burn my ears and cascade around me in broken fragments of melody. The neighbours don't hear anything but the beating drums and the guitar riffs that scratch the calm from the air. Eventually I lie down on the mattress on the floor, the place you wanted it to be, and try forget that my head throbs with words that remind me of you.
Someday it'll be gone, those last slivers of you. Someday I'll not lie in the dark and remember all the times you smiled at me, or the way it felt when your arms enclosed me. Someday I'll forget.