I think about your lips, and how they sunk into my mine like ships, and how the beating of these oceans make these rivers of our veins. I can't pretend that my eyes don't shed the same salt you have spilled into me, and my gut has become solid and empty, and I know it's different now. And my life is nothing like how it was before you came, and there's no way this can leave when I feel it everyday.
I know that I am still alive, but I can't feel the pulse that I used to take for granted. I know that the tips of my fingers have no nerve endings anymore, but I used to feel them harden above your throat. And when I lay, I can't pretend that my mind doesn't wander to things I acknowledge only in diaries and therapy sessions and to liquor bottles and people who wish they never knew. I know that I can't throw for shit. I know I can't understand, I know I can't hold my breath for very long, and I know I can't pretend anymore.
This is how I've faced a lot of things lately this is how I deal with it now.