My memories called--
They asked how you were because they miss you being around. Like parents when their children leave the house.
They asked if I still remember what you smell like at 3 in the morning. Or if I can remember how your hands felt in mine when they brought me back to this reality.
They pondered and asked if you remembered them.
But I told them you were too busy introducing yourself to another set of eyes.
My music paused, it stopped before my favorite line and played, "Have you two talked recently?" The songs asked when they know we haven't spoke in months.
They wouldn't continue the way they're supposed to and instead they played in the order that you played them when you were ranting over a call.
My bed spilled my coffee before it brought it to me, It asked why I've been making multiple cups when I'm the only one drinking. I had to tell it that you're sharing your mug with someone else.
It didn't like that too much, and it asked if you still remember what it felt like to crawl around in my sheets. I told it you forget about that long ago when we crawled in your car.
My mind asked me if I wanted to come back. I told it that I don't know if that's even me anymore--
And that when I open my eyes it never feels real.