missed by a million miles

Even simple tasks,
like laundry, bring up memories

(good and bad)

of you.

My sweatshirt smells
of the girlfriend smell.
The one I had previously spoken of
when I was too afraid to ask you,
"be mine?".

Hope and false reassurances
find their way in small forms
like a jump drive
I had hoped would be filled with an explanation
via word document
or even a photo.

While my heart threatens to beat its way out
of the bones that struggle to keep it
confined and safe from pain such as this,
I think only of the times
we stayed up late writing pages
and I avoided that look in your eye
at all costs.

This is the chain of thoughts.
The one that forces the condensation to my eyes,
the thing you were most afraid of.