i told myself
that the only reason
one wouldn’t forget
those which they loved
and which inevitably harmed them
is because when they wrote their
stories with permanent ink,
the remnants of their other half,
the one that is now gone,
spilled onto sheets of their future.
but I’ve passed all the pages
that your ink has bled onto,
and i continue to find myself
thinking about you.
and remembering the splinters you left
in my skin,
instead of pulling them out,
and letting myself heal.
instead of letting myself forget.
although I now write in pencil,
to keep my past hidden away,
and my present in the moment,
you keep appearing in the margins
of my tattered notebook.
i keep revisiting the remnants of us,
the remnants of our past
and wondering why.
the only plausible explanation
is that i must’ve ended us
with incorrect grammar.
a simple punctuation error
dragged you into the rest of my life.
and now i can’t let you go.
in the moment,
i hoped for us to be a continuation,
and now i’m suffering
the effects of ending on a semicolon,
where i should’ve placed a period,
and left you in my past.