I would do our same rituals in a half.
I’d throw my clothes on the floor just to have a little mess to fix later,
just to remember no one ripped them off this time.
I would fight the shower courtain to not get sticked in that disgusting green,
and the water would be 80 degrees.

I’d bittersmile when my teeth brush cheered yours inside that ashed glass.
I would add pepper to my meals. And garlic. And meat.
And our love left.
And the salt would run outta my eyes itself at table time.

I would let the hole in my coat pocket unsewn.
I would watch the same movies that we cried out all over again to find them a new meaning.
I’d wait impatiently for water to boil, so I’d do coffee and popcorn at 4 am.
And then I would miss the smell of cigarette, one right after another.
I missed our endless talks.
I’d replay parts of them in my brain to spend the dark hours.
I would get mad for apparently no reason, without warm hugs these whiles.
I’d sit in my bed and wonder myself how light could strain the window 20 hours a day if the sun was gone.

I kept our traditions for if you appeared to make them less devastating.

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