You messaged me again. And all I can think about is the human-sized hole you left in my heart months ago that I’ve been working so damn hard to fill. The hole that’s (finally) only the size of a small donut hole. And yet, whenever your name flashes across my screen, I imagine a whole box of double-chocolate glazed sitting on my bed, and us, cross-legged, watching some stupid show on Netflix with the California fog floating lazily through my window. And would I be happy there? Sharing the same glass of milk, our lip prints on different corners. Watching the characters dance, laughing where I’m supposed to, wondering, if and when, I’d stop feeling so stagnant, get up, and turn that damn thing off. What is it about you that makes me feel so still? But still in a bad way. Not still like take-my-breath-away still. Not still like makes a busy girl like me stop running. Still, like holding my breath. Still, like waiting for the ground to shatter beneath us. Still, like how my heart was when I saw the photograph of you and her. She had brown hair like me. She smiled big like me. Put her arm around your shoulders, like me. And yet, she was nothing like me. She was just the one I was replaced by. Guess I was right, all along, when I said I didn’t like stillness. There’s something about donut holes and television static and a blanket of fog poking through blinds that just doesn’t sit right. Never did. But yes, I’ll answer your message. I’ll tell you I’m fine because I am. I’ll wish you well because I do. And I’ll fill that little spot in my heart with reminders of all the ways I have been, always will be, full.
Chocolate glazed with milk tastes better without your lips anyways.