I haven't forgotten the smell of inky ballpoint drops but I've forgotten the criticism I had when we were bound and Falling into your arms last night felt like the end of a long journey
-which is fantasy of course.
Without medium, I'm holding onto moments in the form of booty calls
lingering in your sheets trying to make memories warm enough to get me through the winter.
You were right to say our words would leave these pages
But my past words- my last words- They weren't as kind as yours.
And so while your words careen and scatter
leaving empty sheets for you to pen-again
While you begin again
I can't seem to un-fall.
My words don't leave or fade:
they just defrost.
And I'm not left where I began at all.