The Carcass Of Us.

I still find strands of your long blonde hair clinging to me like ghostly fingerprints, remnants of a love that gnawed at my bones. I still feel your presence in the places we carved our names, in the albums that once held our summers hostage, in the songs that now sound like wolves howling through my ribs. I miss your face—the one you hated, the one I worshipped like a fresh wound, raw and beautiful, aching under my tongue. I wish you had let me bleed for you, let me tear myself open and feed you every pulsing piece of me before you grew impatient, before you let the dogs of doubt tear us apart. Now, I am just a carcass of what could have been, left to be picked clean by the memory of you.