The way that the covers restrict my movement makes me reminisce. 

It means nothing to others, but thoughts of the night where you held a drunken me used to get me through the night, now I look back in shame.

I shouldn't have let you hold me like I was your everything. Was I imagining it?

I hear a thunderstorm roar outside my home, notifying me of its return and my music is playing softly.

Two things that didn't happen that night.
It was a cold night, in the fall, when everything was dead. Now it's summer and life is growing.

There is no bayou nearby that I used to look out the kitchen window and think it was a pond.

Instead, there's only trees.

Now, I'm not in the guest room of a friends home. No, I'm in my own room.

I tried to fold the bed the way the guest rooms bed was folded, and the way every foreign bed I've slept in was folded.

I know the chances of me and you were slim, but that doesn't mean it hurts any less when I look at your contact still saved in my phone.

I'm still hoping you're going to text me, I guess.
You never do, but I'm still holding my breath, the only freedom from this hold is the times that I cough- which is slim.

It hurts. It hurts it hurts it hurts

But I'll get over it. I guess I'll have to. You have her now.‭