a letter in your writing doesn’t mean

and i feel drunk
like november, stumbling around on thick uncertain legs,
drunk off the way the cold air
in my lungs
is fighting the fire in my belly,
the slick wet ground the only solid thing
i can find,
the asphalt black and shining
in the rain.

i’m burying my hands deeper
in my pockets
as a reminder
to keep them to myself,
i’m pulling my collar up
and around
my bare neck,
as much to keep the greedy fingers of wind away
as to hide the faded and still fading marks of lips
that aren’t yours, even though
in the darkness
i’m sure your eyes won’t find them.
and i know, baby, we don’t belong to each other anymore
but we’re so good at forgetting all about that
in close proximity, i guess it’s a little like how
you never forget your first phone number
even years after you move away.

maybe it’s the dark, then
that’s making me want
so irrationally.
i want
touch
or
words
or
meaning
or
closure.

i don’t know if this is heartbreak,
not really, i think we should just
call it what it is-
it sounds something like
i miss you. still.