Ten to Nought in Sixty

Ten months it's been and I've not washed out the taste of your lips from mine, nor have I deleted your number that I have memorised in my head from my phone, nor have I forgotten the harsh echo of the door slamming shut in the wake of your absence, rattling on its hinges as your biting words snaked their way down from head to toe, unstitching the flesh and leaving their scars.

Nine times I walked into Starbucks and walked straight back out because the heavy scent of coffee reminds me of lazy Sundays and early mornings and conversations at sunrise that I wish weren't burned into the back of my mind. I wonder if I'll ever be able to have a cup again.

Eight texts I typed out and deleted, re-typed and deleted, typed and deleted. I can't stomach the sick feeling of regret that will sweep through my body if I let my finger slip on the send button. And I can't stomach waiting on replies that will never ping through.

Seven drives past your house and I feel like I'm a stalker. I hope you didn't see me. I was trying to catch a glimpse of you, to see if you were suffering as much as I am in the hope that it would give me some sort of savage satisfaction. It was a fool's errand. You looked happier with her than you ever did with me.

Six seconds into dialling your phone, I hang up. I know that I will just end up greeting your repeated "hello"s and "who's there" with muted silence and your voice will break me with more power than it should.

Five nights in a row I struggle to summon sleep so I keep our playlist on repeat. Or maybe that's the thief stealing the peace of the night. It doesn't matter anyway. Because I could tell you the order in which all fifty six songs blare through the earphones and how many minutes each one lasts and sing them in perfect harmony to no one listening.

Four pills isn't enough to numb the pain. I down the whole bottle.

Three in the morning and I am wide awake, tallying up the times we went wrong to the times we went right. The latter wins by more than a mile but no one's counting but me.

Two words; time heals.

One boy with a signature smile and a knife balanced on the tip of his tongue is all it took to slice me open and bleed me dry but I had a needle and thread in my back pocket for emergencies just like this and I don't need to stumble into A&E when I have a practised hand and a high threshold for pain.

Zero gravity tied to your memory.
I don't remember the sound of your name from my lips
and I've forgotten the date of your birthday
and I can't for the life of me wonder why I fell for you.
Sleepless nights are a thing of the past
and your number no longer exists in my mind, much less my phone
and the barista in Starbucks knows my order by heart.
So in the middle of a cold, November night when a vaguely familiar number flashes up on my screen and it feels like déjà vu, I give you the benefit of the doubt and put it down to your finger accidentally slipping on eleven digits your fingers felt drawn to.
And then I don't give it a second thought.
I block your call.

- it's been sixty weeks and the sound of your name feels as foreign to me as a country that doesn't exist on the map