do you miss me? i ask. she shrugs,
her eyes are dark, she feels guilty,
i can see it in the shape of her mouth,
in the things she doesn't say,
in the freckles across her cheeks.

we left each other three months ago
and i still think of her too often,
at midnight, in the morning, in the afternoon.
i see her on each street corner,
i search for her in bars and museums,
in the songs we used to listen to.

empty cigarette packs pile up in my car
and i am sitting on the beach at night,
staring at the wild ocean, the seagulls,
the stars, the empty shore,
thinking of her, thinking of her.

love is never meant to last,
i've said it all my life,
we said it to each other two years ago
before we agreed to touch each other.

i know this, i know this,
i have always known this.
i used to laugh when people wrote of heartbreak,
called love letters exaggeration,
accused poets of dramatization.

do you miss me? she asks, and i shrug,
half-smile on my lips,
an easy smirk, a soft chuckle,
but i am lying,
i miss her, i miss who i was
when we were together.