7:43 A.M.

This morning I woke up with the same shitty realization I'm still in purgatory.
The same hideous three inch knot of yard weaved into my stomach.
I remember the minutes it's been since I've heard your voice.
The beat of my alarm makes me think of the beat in your step and the rhythm that your hands would move along my back.
And it makes me miss your touch.
I miss the subtle contact of your hand on my thigh in the quaint bliss of your passenger seat.
I miss feeling at home in your annoyed stare because I knew you could never stay mad at me for long.
But I don't miss your vacant eyes when you're mind is on more important things than me.
I don't miss every time your mouth slipped a "fuck" or "shit" and they crawled through a tunnel in my whole being and pricked every organ, bone, and ounce of flesh.
I don't miss the nearly unforgivable heartaches you served me on a platter and I ate them, with hardly any struggle, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for weeks.
I can't tell you what it's like to be your friend.
I have never known you in a non complicated, rubber band ball of conflictions and emotions and devotions.
Because I will always be the suffering, shockingly undead fly entangled in your web.
A web of love and contradiction and passion and agony.
And no matter how hard you try to feed on my loneliness, fate will not allow my withering wings to stop their attempt at flight.
I've lost my voice.
So long has it been since I've been influenced solely by myself.
Five months into the complication of us and my voice deepened with an accent of you.
My body stiffened the first time you kissed my shoulder and has stayed that way.
Like week old bread that can be made to have purpose but is no longer so manipulatable.
I am now flexible under only your influence, your guidance, your approval.
I can only stretch in the idea of your smile but I miss the feeling of my free flowing body in dance.
I was a spiral now constricted to a line.
But as my line begins to curve out, I feel as though my bones have been replaced with bricks.
The weight is suffocating and I struggle to move out of this bed. The constant collapse of my head on the pillow makes me question any urge in myself to continue to curl.
I feel a foreign comfort in between the sheets and perfumed blankets.
Perhaps it's because they remind me of your warmth, your furnace of a body that heats my limp fragility every winter.
But it is 7:43 AM.
And it is 34 degrees.
And I am cold.
And I am lonely.
And the only words I can muster enough to see my breathe in the air are your name.