I was such a sap about so many things

I was such a sap about so many things:
How he would use my toothbrush
            His hair that would get left on my pillowcase
                       The way he would look at himself in the mirror when he’d wash his face
                                    The beers he chose to drink
                       Hearing him tune his guitar and watching his fingers press down on the strings
            Seeing him not succeed in the things he loved most
Sitting on couches, our fingers entwined
            Watching him read volumes of Dumas’s works
                        Listening to his drunken rambles about “what’s missing from the world”
                                    His worn down blackbrown leather belt
                        The way he would dance at weddings
            His meticulous record collection, in alphabetical order, plastic sleeves and all
His brilliance and how it made me feel so full
            The azalea gardens in Fairmount Park in April and how the pink reflected off his nose
                        His fingers through my hair
                                    The way he smelled after a drunken argument—hot and strong
                        Teaching him how to make homemade pasta
            Counting stars out of my sunroof 

I was a sap about the bad things too.
Like when love evaporated out of him like he was sitting on top of a flame. 

And then realizing that this heavy dense fog
had drenched the possibility of success with a sour milk stain 
that still clogs my heart and dysfuncts its pulse 

Even now the pain drips like honey down my body
Not one part of my body can escape it 

When I read Dumas I feel nausea—how is forgetting so long?



About laurenfedorko

Aspiring writer. English teacher. Philosophy: know more about the world than you did yesterday and lessen the suffering of others.
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