I never really expected to lose you.

You weren’t mine to begin with, so I suppose it serves me right when I preach my woes to tiny crowds that eventually I should have need to take my own advice. It’s not really right for someone to get so attached so quickly, I know.

I give very good advice, though I very seldom follow it.

Did you see that in me? Is that there— the ugly crack in my back which reveals the shards I’ve swept up and cleaned away, compacting them into glitter to sprinkle on stories and rehearsed prose to impress a giggling audience; is that what repulsed you?

Am I repulsive?

You were everything I ever wanted for myself, you know. At least, you gave me that impression. You’re one of those types; the muse. Beautiful, mysterious, funny, present, delightful and grand. Everyone wanted to please you, especially me. Then, like breath you were out. Right when I’d gotten to feel less like I was drowning.

I want to appreciate the time we had together, but I just can’t understand.

You remind me of my cousin. She’s a pair of combat boots, sold in a thrift shop owned by an old woman in a young body who’s seen adventures no one would ever be able to tell as well as she could over a cup of bitter herbal tea. Some might call it pretentious that she prices herself used and worn at 800 dollars, but I am utterly enraptured. She’s been places, she knows people, she cares about the right things in just the right amounts. She’s on posters, somewhere. Being admired by rockstars smoking weed in a room painted red and hair painted black— fried in chance encounters that make legends soaked in nonchalance.

It wasn’t your choice to go, yet it felt so deliberate when you left me behind. I guess I was too big to carry with you. Too burdensome?

I didn’t even reopen your chapter til today— I wanted to give you space.

I’m really bad at figuring out when people need space. I give them way too much- or not enough- never the right amount. I’m waffling between tears, or counting this as your loss. Maybe it’s okay to have both; tears for a loss that is and isn’t mine. Tears that you would have bottled and made into some sort of whiskey. You’d pour me a shot, extra sour mix, and wink at me. That smile so inviting but really I don’t think you like me at all.

If I hurt you, I’m sorry. Even if I’ll never know how I did it.

Forget me.

Perhaps the next time I think of you it’ll sting a little less to know I’m still on one of your save files.

Never knowing when I’ll be erased entirely.