It must be so easy to be you—
to waltz through life,
not knowing the daggers you
gently placed all over my body.

One for when we held hands.
Seven for my mind that fights you every day.
Eleven for my heart that hopes to see you again.

I wonder how you’d react.
Will you feel my stone heart
when you stumble on my writings?
Will you meet my eyes
if we cross paths by the lake?

I’d imagine you looking for me in her,
or her, or her—
my eyes,
my words,
my cold hands.

I hope I haunt you
like you do me.

Let’s both play this game,
until we are grey.